The Elder Scrolls: A Bard's Tale
by A Most Sovereign Lady
Summary: Follow the tale of the Deuteragonists Freya Fair-Hair of Bruma and her charge, Lady Gwynnifer Kingsley of Daggerfall as they gallivant across the land of Skyrim and beyond as war rages and dragons return to the world.
1. Prologue

The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim

 **A Bard's Tale**

Prelude

The maiden was beautiful, any within reason would have agreed to those words of description. She was tall and strong in the build of the feminine, possessing more finely developed hips and strong legs than she had bulk of arm, though these were also well toned and clearly possessing of strength. Her hair was long to the middle of her back and red-golden worn in a single braid that looked quite heavy while her eyes were a captivating steely blue. Her bust was not an exaggerated parody of femininity though it was sizable to the point of presence. Nor was she without marks against her visage, three small and relatively subtle scars depending on the lighting covered her right cheek, a memory from a bar fight with a cat-man and she carried herself with a gait of a warrior older than her youthful appearance possessed. A simple soldier's broadsword hung at her right-hand side belaying her left-handedness while a pack rested across her shoulders laden with a bed-roll, torch, woodsman's ax and a simple tin cooking pot.

Within the pack were her sparse belongings, a truly upper-class set of clothing, embroidered and jewel encrusted as well as a simpler rougher set of clothing, a few vials of healing potions, a couple of books, _The Art of War Magic_ by Zurin Arctus and _Son_ _gs of Skyrim_ , as well as a few bruised vegetables ranging from potatoes to leeks that were three days prior fresh and now were somewhat wilted. Between the pack and her back sat a light but well made shield painted in gold and blue, a simple round thing to compliment her sword. Carefully wrapped in leather beneath the shield was a finely crafted red and gold lute which completed her vast array of things carried. Covering her flesh was equally simple (and so far sturdy) armor crafted of animal hide, though she intended to purchase better soon. A thick woolen tunic and a well made but somewhat worn leggings were under the armor of course to avoid chaffing and scratching from the armor's imperfections. She was also utterly alone, the beauteous woman, in the snow and the cold of the home of her people, the Nords, Skyrim, the Old Country, the Fatherland and was thoroughly unimpressed.

This woman hailed from the city of Bruma and was called Freya the Fair-Haired and was used to the cosmopolitan nature of the heartland of the Empire of Cyrodiil, but more importantly was used to their standard of living, the infrastructure as it were.

"Skyrim…" Her voice was melodious, lovely by the standard of many, she was a formally trained Bard, a Warrior-Poet, and while she was not a Skald of the Nordic tradition she knew many of her people's songs and ballads. As well as many of Cyrodiil's songs. One step in front of the other had carried her from her distant home city in search of a change in venue, a small amount of fame preceded her coming, she was well known in the courts of the counts of Cyrodiil and had performed (only once) in the Imperial Palace itself for the Emperor himself. She had grown bored with Cyrodiil, and traveled first to Hammerfell, where she found that she adored the heat of the deserts there and would have stayed truly did she not feel some sort of nomadic pull not unlike the Redguards who called the Ali'kr home that drew her here, to this miserable and frozen over place.

She gave little heed to the streams of peoples, mostly of the peasant stock who had just enough to flee in the direction opposite where she was headed, war brewed here in Skyrim, this she knew. A terrible civil strife, inflicted by the Empire when they had bowed down in agreement to the will of the elves in Alinor. Personally, being youthful, she had no memory of 'Talos', and felt no offense at the banning of the worship of a man, though she did not agree with the idea that the elves had the apparent right to do as they desired to so called 'deviants' regarding the issue. No, her matron was Dibella, Goddess of Women and Passion, while she respected the other Gods she could not definitively deny that she was a monotheist. She had simply never felt close to the other seven of the Eight, even Akatosh, the Dragon God of Time and King of the Gods held no special sway for her. She had opted to discuss religion as little as possible when she became old enough as a result of this outlook as there was little doubt that others would take it badly, which academically at least, she could understand. The Gods were a very personal thing to everyone, beings beyond comprehension that men and mer held close to their hearts, it wasn't something that an elf or a treaty could dictate, not properly, anyway.

She sighed internally and trekked through the crowds, she noticed they were no thinner now then when the Nord's Civil War first started. Few of the fleeing refugees at this point were Nords, most were of Elven stock, Altmer, Dunmer, Bosmer, all of them saying the same, they'd come from the east of Skyrim, where Ulfric Stormcloak 'ruled' from Windhelm, the ancient Second City in Tamriel. They mentioned some were braver than they to stay behind but that most, in their opinion the sensible ones, had no interest in remaining. To this she had no answer, where she was reared into womanhood the idea of disliking other people simply because they were not Nords was ridiculous. House Carvain was as heartland Nibenian as they came and they were still much loved by the Nords of Bruma, and the streets and houses and pubs were shared with Imperials, Bretons, Dunmer and more with all the great races of the Empire present at some point in the year. Provincial loyalty perhaps is what it was ultimately but as she came to a stop next to the border posting she gave no more thought to it in that moment as a man in the armor of the Imperial Legion stepped up with a sheaf of papers in hand despite being as Nordic as they came. "Name, Winters passed, Hometown and reason for visiting Skyrim?" They were straight-forward and reasonable questions of course, simple census information.

"Freya of Bruma, called the Fair-Haired, nineteen winters and religious pilgrimage." Two truths and a lie, but a harmless one at least, she had no reason to join any sort of cause here and had no interest in such things.

"Can you write?" The Legionary asked simply as he held out a stained, rumpled quill and a sheaf of traveling papers.

"Aye." She put her mark down on the pages where he pointed out, signing her name proper were appropriate.

"Enjoy your visit to Skyrim, traveller." The Legionary waved her through the throng of people with a short motion and with that she entered the 'Fatherland'.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Welcome to my second posting of A Bard's Tale, the story of Freya of Bruma and her lady, Gwynnifer Kingsley, Lady of Daggerfall. Freya is not the Dragonborn, she is a simple bard, hoping to record the stories of her people which are alien as alien to her as the meaning of life. Freya is instead the sworn handmaiden (read: bodyguard), companion and eventually friend (or more depending on how this writes itself) of the Last Dragonborn.

Bethesda Softworks and its parent company ZeniMax Media are the owners of The Elder Scrolls, I am the owner of my original characters.


	2. I

The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim

A Bard's Tale – I

Freya the Fair-Haired did not marvel as she walked down the long road that led into her homeland, the throng of people thinning out progressively as she approached the strong stone walls of an Imperial fortress, built with all the signs of the Legion's efficiency it was not an ancient and motley fortress erected by the soldiers of Reman Cyrodill the ruins of which now dotted the Cyrodiilic countryside, no, the walls stood tall and proud, ready to throw back any assault made by those who fancied themselves the Empire's enemies. As with most Imperial fortresses, a small town sat in the walls and as with all Imperial towns, the roads were rigidly planned and the town was as well along strict lines of standardization that was universal throughout the Imperial Legion's forts across the Empire's vast breadth. Legionaries stood around, archers manned the walls and swordsmen lined the road at intervals and while their swords were sheathed at the moment they could spring into action as needed with complete ease and discipline. The people milled about in the shadow of the soldiers, dour and in ill spirits owing not to the occupation of their township primarily but the constant shadow that hung over Skyrim these days, that of the war that had torn the province in halves and even then those lines were not so clear, it was difficult, if not impossible to tell who stood where and most often no one knew until one had stabbed the other in name of the Emperor or the 'true High King'.

The lovely bard however was fast with a smile and gracious towards all she met, brightening the days of those she came across as best she could when and where she could do so as she made her way through the town towards the inn, locally referred to as mead halls. The door creaked slightly as she opened it, the place bustled with life, some coming into town but most were leaving, she noticed. Freya approached the bar with a steadfast smile on her face and the barman attempted to return the gesture, though his remained pained. "Welcome to Helgen, traveller, what can I get for you?" He had a kindly sort of voice and seemed decent enough.

"My thanks, I've been walking for days it feels like." Not a lie either, Freya sat down as a bar stool freed up. "Food would be nice, I admit, what do you have?" The Bard spoke eloquently with clear signs of a thorough education, the barman made no heed to it however.

"Good horker stew fresh made with a bit of elf ear and some other herbs, tastes mighty good and is good food for the end of a road." The publican responded, used to dealing with 'foreigners' as the barman in the only inn in a border town. Freya vaguely knew what a horker was, but more importantly knew it was edible meat and nodded her consent to a bowl of it. The publican sat a steaming bowl of it down in front of her after a moment to fetch it from the kitchens and retrieve a wooden spoon. The stew came with a chunk of hard cheese and some softer but still day old bread. "Mug of ale would be nice as well." Freya admitted as she picked up the spoon and began to eat with gutso, occasionally dunking either bread or cheese into the thick broth that the stew sat in. A clay mug filled with foaming ale was sat in front of her a moment later and the publican went off to see to other patrons and left her to her meal. She had to admit that the cutlets of meat were tender, well seasoned and succulent, very good eating. The cheese while hard was hearty and loosened up nicely while the bread absorbed the flavors of the gravy and turned out lovely, if not a bit soggy. The ale while thoroughly uninspiring, was cold at least and that was good.

As she was finishing her meal the publican made his way back over to her. Knowing what he'd ask for before he began Freya simply asked "How much?"

"Thirty drakes." The man responded, she nodded and pulled out a terse, fat coin purse from her belt and counted out thirty septims for the man.

"How much for a room?" Freya added, he added another ten septims for a total of forty, she handed over another ten without argument and he led her to the stairs and directed her from there.

The bard climbed the stairs to the second floor, it was flat and open largely with a few shelves strategically placed to serve as walls for a common room where people slept. She frowned slightly but shrugged and made her way towards the 'room' she'd been directed. Ducking behind the curtain the Nordic woman shrugged off her pack and set it down gently before she repeated the process with her delicate instrument whereas the shield and sword were set next to the bed directly, the hilt of the sword pointed inward towards the pillow, just in case. When this task was complete and the sun, called Magnus by the Bretons and elves, was beginning its descent she lay on the straw bed, having shed her armor for the simple underclothes, and after lighting a candle on the bed-side table, read for some time, until the candle had burnt down and she felt she had learned something from the volume on magic, though her skill in those arcane arts were so few as to be considered non-existent it never hurt to attempt to learn more beyond one's own experience.

It did not take long for Freya to drift off once the book had been set aside, the flat and hard pillow of straw and layered fabric beneath her doing nothing to deter the sleep that had been well earned over the course of her walk to this ancestral land of her forebears. Naturally, she was asleep within minutes.

The next morning arrived with a suddenness that was almost annoying as Freya pulled herself up from the matted straw that she'd slept upon. Pale dawn's light shined through some thin parts in the roof's thatch, which was in need of replacement she noticed in her more awake and rested state. There was a brisk chill in the air that caused the fine hairs on her to stand at attention, as well as other more sensitive parts standing to alertness in the cold of the morning. The only light was that of the pale sun as she dressed and quickly, while the armor did not offer much more in the way of warmth, it was far better than the mere sheer underclothing that had preceded, and now complimented the hides. Once she was dressed the bard ran her fingers through her hair, the ornate braid had become a tangled mess due to her sleeping on top of it, a mildly discomforting experience at least. Pulling it around to her front the Nord moved with deft fingers, plucking twigs of straw and resetting the locks in their proper twines, tight enough to keep shape, loose enough to not cause pain. The entire process was lengthy, quick as she was, and was completed by the time the sun was true to the world, banishing the gray of dawn and bringing a rise in noise level as the inn, now with many more patrons awake and moving, began its daily routine.

Out of her own routine, the bard gathered her supplies and quit the 'room' she'd occupied, moving downstairs to the common area. The large room was still mostly empty upon her entrance, though the smells of cooking emerged from the kitchens already, and there was some light chatting being done by the various people who were around. Seeing a lack of anyone doing similarly, she set her pack down next to the wall near the door and unwrapped with the utmost care her beloved instrument, a red and gold accented lute that was quite old but the sounds of which were, in her opinion at least, manipulated so masterfully as to approach divinity. The melody she played was not a local song, nor even one born of the languages of Man, the tune was Elvish in origin, gathered during her travels in the distant land of Valenwood and floated over the room and its patrons with the strength of a gentle breeze, both fortifying and relaxing in a paradoxical manner simultaneously. By the time she had finished, the room had filled and was filled with the sound of people readying themselves for the road, consuming quick breakfasts and for the most part avoiding alcohol this early in the day.

At the generous cost of another five drakes, Freya partook a meal of her own, a simple but hardy porridge presumably born of barley or winter wheat along with a bruised but sweet apple and a mug filled with milk. By the time that was finished and away the bard rose from her seat, rewrapped her lute, set it across her back, then her shield, and through some convincing her pack, levied her sword to her right-side and set out the door with a cheery smile to those behind her. Upon exiting the town of Helgen, if it could be called that, more accurately the border-crossing of Helgen, was alive with activity even so early in the day. The population, which couldn't have been more than three hundred people, if that, were heading to whatever they did for employment, from wood-cutters in the forests outside the walls to tanners, blacksmiths and others. What caught her attention however was the paranoia present in the stances of the soldiers who patrolled.

They were all stout men and women of all the races of the Legion, from Imperials to the Orcish heavy troopers that wore the heavy plate armor of the Legion and without exception they were all tense, waiting for something or someone to either occur or show up. The clattering of the iron wheels of carts answered this, and a great muttering among the people as a column of Imperial troops in full armor entered the settlement. They marched in double file, at least a full Cohort, ahead of whom was a man in armor that absolutely gleamed, though not from any lack of use, while it was ornate in that it was well polished the silver and gold inlaid breastplate and greaves were also practical and quite thick. The rider Freya had heard of, though she didn't think to ever see the man himself in person, recognizing him, however crude the paintings were, Gaius Tullius, a legate if she remembered right who like many others had fought in and gained much fame in the Great War against the elves of Alinor.

Some of those elves were present as well, one was atop a proud white horse that was unlike the horses around, being taller and leaner. The elf wore finery of black and gold, and had while the ethereal look of elves that the bard had always heard of, and seen to a lesser degree in the Bosmer, was greater and more distant than those woodland folk. Other elves were alongside the first, in golden armor that gleamed in the early morning sun, broad leaf-bladed swords hung at their sides and like their charge were themselves a distant beauty. She spent so much time simply gazing at the ethereal mer that the carts came and went by her, though her eyes flicked that way as they clambered to a stop. The Imperials had branched off, the cohort set a ring of security around the courtyard that the carts had stopped in from which spilled men and women. At least twenty warriors in blue comparisoned scalemail made of finely crafted bronze, their boots were strong leather and they were all of them, almost without exception, Nords.

The one singular exception was a diminutive figure, average height among their own people perhaps but surrounded by titanic Nords seemed that much smaller. One at a time a broad-shouldered Nord in Imperial armor called out names from lists, until the small figure. By then, Freya had moved forward and come to the back of the soldiers, they were not paying attention to her but it was unspoken truth that to step forward was to invite a swift death. "Who… are you?" The broad man spoke, his voice mellow for a bear of a man.

"Gwynnifer Kingsley, Lady of Daggerfall." The small woman, a Breton, had a melodious voice, refined and clearly of noble stock, as were her features, sculpted cheek-bones and high set features as becoming those of nobility. She had violet eyes, Freya noted, and dark brown if not black hair that fell to her shoulders. Her face was not easily forgettable, a helpful trait in men and women of high station. "What do we do, captain? She's not on the list."

The Imperial that the Nord spoke to did not receive a chance to answer as Freya touched a guard in the circle on the shoulder, he for whatever reason, stepped aside and let her enter. "I speak for the Lady Gwynnifer!" Freya said, impulsive and perhaps stupid in more ways than one. Every eye and head came down in her direction, and very shortly, all those present were looking directly at her. "I am her handmaiden and bodyguard, we were separated two days before this one, in the mountains near the Rift." It was lies, blatantly so, but honeyed and said so with conviction that those knowing in the ways of Bards would know why it was having such an effect. Gwynnifer for her part, said nothing, but nodded a nod when the captain looked towards her as though to confirm the story.

"I lament that you have taken my lady's finery, and pray for the sake of all of your men that that is all that was taken." Freya's voice remained severe as she continued to weave her tale like a master. "May perhaps you shall do the letter of the law, and release a noble of high standing on parole, as is appropriate than to behead her here, among this rabble of malcontents and rebels." The Nord Bard held her breath, praying to the Divines in sequential order that this story was bought wholesale, or she'd find herself next in line for the chopping block!

The severe and aged man that was General Tullius, who had stood across the square as this event unfolded finally spoke, his voice powerful and filled with the gravel of bellowing orders at men on the heated fields of battle. "Very well." The Imperial man said pointedly. "If this is indeed a Lady of the House of Kingsley, she is to be released on parole." Then, Gwynnifer spoke.

"My father is Lord Roland Kingley and my mother Isabelle Kinglsey, formerly Ashcroft. I am of station and pedigree."

The Nord with the lists remarked something about her fleeing court intrigue.

"Very well, Lady Gwynnifer, you are hereby released on parole."

It was at that moment, that all hell broke loose.


	3. II

A Bard's Tale – II

The sky visibly lightened, though not in any way that could be construed as comforting. A hostile red possessed the clouds as fire and stone began to rain down upon the world. Blasting flame scorched both rock and men, whose bloodcurdling screams echoed for short periods in the air as something out of all knowledge and time circled overhead in a manner not unlike a bird of prey. Its roars shook the foundations of the place until heavily it landed atop one of the stone towers, which buckled beneath the immensity of its weight as though the building was crafted of wet clay. Fear filled the hearts of even the stoutest men present, "Dragon!" One of the rebels yelled in a voice laced with despair. There was no time for the noise of human voices after that single declaration as the beast roared mightily, unleashing a gale of boiling flame from deep within itself that washed over the courtyard in a wave of light and heat. As in the next second, bodies went in every possible direction conceivable, including up, as the over pressure from the sudden heating of the air disturbed the local atmosphere, albeit on an incredibly small level. The end result being several dozen people were flung around like rag-dolls and more than one had a gruesome ending. The smell of ash and burnt flesh became apparent as people finally began to run.

The crowd, already disorganized, became a stampede in short order as the dragon bellowed fire once more, this time from the sky above the fortress. The rebels and their leader barreled through the Imperials who themselves had been thrown into disarray by the suddenness of events and with a few exceptions, it was a scene of near total chaos. Freya for her part, quailed. Something out of a children's story was overhead, burning and clawing at the world as real as she was. Fire did not burn her, for whatever reason the Divines had devised the sweltering heat of the dragonfire did not touch her, though that did not stop the sudden uplifting motion that the super-heated air was from tossing her a foot or so into the air before dropping her back down along with others. Unlike the others, there was at least something to cushion her fall, and she wept internally, even subconsciously, as her ears heard through all the sounds of death the splintering sound of wood as her beloved lute was smashed into firewood. The bard had little time to consider the loss of her friend and livelihood however, as in her lungs was forcibly shoved out by the force of impact against the ground, lessened only slightly by her equipment and spare clothing, those articles themselves more than likely now ruined.

Gasping for breath in the suddenly hot air was a task she was unprepared for as the Nord pulled herself back up to her feet shakily. A little voice in her mind was screaming at her to run, but such was not in her nature to do so. A few scant feet away there was, equally unharmed though for a different reason, the Lady she'd lied for blatantly, wreathed in a soft white aura of light, the thrum of magicka filling the air around her and for several feet. "We should go." While the voice of the Breton remained soft, it had taken to it a hardness born of battle, and left no room for argument, and considering the circumstances, Freya was in no mood to argue.

Like thieves in the night, the two women clung to what remained of the strong stone walls of Helgen as fire consumed all around them without discrimination. The Legion fought admirably, or rather they attempted to fight admirably, as archers, crossbowmen and battle-mages did everything in their power to drive away the primordial beast that hunted them liberally. It was sadly of little use, however. Between the dragon's fire and its dread presence, most simply ran while from atop his tall horse, General Tullius led a bold defense, attempting to save what remained of the town's people and garrison. Those who did not run suffered the fate of being burnt to death. "What do we do, _my lady_?" Freya hissed in Gwynnifer's ear as they ducked low behind a wall behind a crumbling facade of what were once buildings. Black fate was not done with them quite yet however as the dragon landed upon that very stretch of wall, its great claws digging into the stone with the same ease as paper torn under a strong grip as simultaneously the structure sagged under its weight. Gwynnifer shook her head frantically to cue silence, and not desiring to die, Freya obeyed. Another blast of fire came from the dragon's maw, incinerating a large part of the buildings in front of them, jettisoning out into the square where what remained of the Legion continued to fight, the creature having long since scoured the walls of archers or magi.

The great beast again took wing, and perhaps realizing the hopelessness of their situation, the Imperials began a hasty, if not ordered, retreat. "We need to get out of here." Gwynnifer said quickly after the dragon had gone on, already moving again the duo made their way towards one of the great wooden gates of the settlement, across the broken flagstone of former courtyards and what were once roads rendered unto Oblivion by the dragon's fire as with a triumphant roar of victory, the creature went onward, southward. In its wake it left naught but the stench of fire, ash and death as burned flesh and wood crackled softly in a nauseating symphony to the event that could hardly be believed. Against their better judgment and owing to the heavy oaken bar on the gate that led to possibly friendlier lands in Cyrodiil, the two headed southward as well, with all possible speed to leave the ruined fortress and its dead behind them as others had.

The road that led further into the province of Skyrim was clogged with life. All that walked along this road were refugees, though for another reason than that of war. People who had looks of terror etched into their faces, people who were distraught at the loss of all they had, at the deaths of all those they had known. They wept as they walked, proud and strong even in defeat, the Nords of Skyrim. As they walked Freya didn't even notice that Gwynnifer was shivering, puffs of steam coming from her breath. "Is it always so insufferably cold here!?" The Breton noble hissed, her voice stuttered from the cold of the North. Her clothing, if it could be called that, was essentially a burlap sack with holes for her head and arms and what were trousers once in a past life, now worn so thin as to be well passed ragged, held up by a length of rope and the poor woman wore no shoes, either. "It's surely not that bad my lad-" The Nord paused as she spoke, the adrenaline finally wearing off both of them brought her to recognize that Gwynnifer was actually in rather dire straits.

"Here." The Nord paused, half-shrugging half-wriggling out of her pack, glad that it hadn't been torched, and rummaged through it. Her foodstuff was completely smashed into paste, her books were stained with tomato juice, which brought tears to her eyes, but her clothing was spared. She drew out the fur-lined, downy-laced heavy cotton finery that she had brought with her from Cyrodiil, figuring it to be nicer than walking into a Jarl's court dressed in armor and under arms. "Put this on." Sadly, she had nothing to offer her for her feet. "And these." The Nord kicked off her boots, the snow beneath her now bare feet wasn't even felt.

"In the road?" The noblewoman stated ludicrously.

"There's a tree over there." The bard said in a monotonous deadpan, as though it were the most normal thing in the world to do. The crowd around them, those who could find the small joy, chuckled darkly at the dilemma, though others had looks of sympathy if they could spare them. Cursing softly in the language of the Bretons, Gwynnifer ducked behind a tree while Freya waited, her offhand idly resting on the pommel of her sword, which again brought a frown to her face, as she felt it was loose and battered, no doubt from the beating she'd taken earlier. "Going to have to replace this now..." The Nord groaned, mostly to herself as she heard the Breton lady behind her.

"Thank you." The words were simple and hardly necessary, she certainly wasn't going to let her freeze to death.

"Of course, my lady." The bard gave a small smile and bowed overly dramatically.

"Hmm, yes, we should officiate that, shouldn't we?" Gwynnifer said twirling a small bit of her hair between her fingers. "Why'd you speak out?" She was smart enough to start talking after the crowd had gotten ahead of them somewhat.

"Never let a damsel in distress stay distressed? Think nothing of it, I wasn't going to let those brutes cut your head off." Freya answered with the same easy-going attitude that allowed her her small amount of fame in other lands, and that kept her head up even when times were glum. Bards were said to fake their joy, Freya felt no such difficulty.

"I thank you, dame… I never got your name?" Gwynnifer said, reveling in the sudden warmth to envelop her form, though it was still quite cold.

"Freya, and I am no lady, my lady." The other woman answered quickly which caused the Breton to smirk just a little bit.

"If you're going to keep calling me that, I ask that you swear fealty to my service." Gwynnifer said very seriously, and Freya thought about it for a long moment, going quiet as she did so, they walked on in the wake of the people as they all slogged their way downward and out of the mountains, towards the central plains of Skyrim below them, though the vast majority turned off in the road and headed towards Falkreath and other holds. "I'm a Nord, we're not really into fealty and oaths like you Bretons are." She finally answered before continuing, "but yes, if we're going to spin this tale, and may it gods be willing a most epic one, I should. Do I kneel or something, and then you drag a sword across my shoulders?"

"That's only if you're my knight." Gwynnifer said simply. "Your word will do, and I shall hold you to it, until I release you, or death take you, or me, whichever comes first. I want you to know though, that Nord wasn't wrong. I really am running from something, and it may find me one day."

Freya shrugged, if it could be called that as she rolled her shoulders again, releasing her pack before she slid her shield down her arm, adjusting the straps and the weight of the thing to her forearm before slinging the pack once more as they approached three ancient monoliths. "Hey, I know what those are, those are guardian stones, I never thought I'd see them outside of Cyrodiil." The bard changed the subject very suddenly.

"These stand in every province in the Empire, perhaps all over the world." Gwynnifer said as she approached one, the ingrained effigy of a powerful mage, perhaps even Magnus himself, etched upon its stone surface, worn down from age uncounted. "I was born under these stars. Which were you?"

"None here." Freya said with an earnestly in her voice. "I was born under the Lover."

"Ah, so, your answer, my noble handmaiden?" The mage flexed her fingers, drawing on the ancient power of her vast pool of magicka, her hand erupting in fire, though it harmed neither flesh nor cloth.

"Yes, very well. I swear to you an oath upon my honor, I shall do all I may to protect you from the perils of this land as we explore it." The bard said, adding her conditions most easily, which caused a pause, and then a nod in Gwynnifer.

"Onward then, my handmaiden." She said before starting down the hill's final lap, and into the valley below. "There's a village up ahead, by the looks of it."

"So there is, maybe I can find some new shoes there..." Freya muttered softly, while the cold did not bother her, she didn't like the idea of cutting her feet on the sharp flagstones of the Imperial Road.


	4. III

A Bard's Tale – III

"It would appear that we have spearheaded ahead of news from the south..." Gwynnifer said offhandedly as the duo of accidental adventurers approached the outermost cusp of the village. It was a large enough settlement, straddling the side of a river and consuming a small islet in the center of the flow which, if the mist on the horizon was to be believed, descended into a rapid fall to the valley below the mountains that they technically still occupied. Atop an outcropping of rock, they could make out the shape of another walled settlement that was at the base of the mountain on the other side of the river, atop that mountain, the thing that sat there was clearly older than men. Gargantuan to such an extent that even a tall man would be dwarfed beneath the great arches that consumed the mountain side, and that was merely observed from a distance, neither could begin to imagine what it looked like close up and Gwynnifer had seen the dominating height of Direnni Tower, even.

"That's a good first impression on how small we are." Freya said in a tone best described as a whisper as they jogged down the path towards the low rock and wooden wall of the river-spanning village. The main avenue of the Imperial Road that bisected the small village was one of paradox for the two women, men and women worked, children laughed and played where small enough, and worked or learned alongside their fathers and mothers where old enough. Immediately the two noticed something else, as well. There were no guards, nor men-at-arms of any sort, not even a single ragged militiaman could be seen as they entered through the open gate-less gateway. To the side of the road was an older woman kneading hide into leather, mumbling something about dragons, the two tensed up at that but relaxed before anyone saw the reaction.

"My lady, this is too small a place for any of your enemies to notice you, perhaps we should split up for a time, to see to our needs?" Freya inquired, and pressed a rather fat leather purse of septims into Gwynnifer's hand, the Breton noble nodded slightly, giving her accent and the Nord wandered towards the bellowing heat of a forge, where a large man with broad shoulders hammered away at fish hooks, nails and saw-blades. Gwynnifer herself wandered towards a building with a promising sign over it _The Riverwood Trader,_ as a bonus she now knew the name of the quaint little town. The door was ajar, indicating that the shop was open, and she stepped through, eyes adjusting semi-quickly to the sudden darkness, a roaring fire consumed a stone-lined pit at the far side of the room, a collection of tables and chairs consumed the center of the floor and along the wall was a counter-top laden down with objects of merchandise that ranged from a battered looking sword to hard cheeses and more.

The two individuals within the building along with her were noticed immediately, as they were screaming at one another in voices consumed more by aggravation than by true anger. The one behind a counter, a man of possibly Imperial stock judging by his brownness, finally said rather loudly "Enough! We are done talking about this." The other, a woman also of similar stock, perhaps siblings? Threw her arms up in defeat and walked off cursing under her breath.

"Oh!, Oh my, a customer. I'm so sorry you had to hear that, Lucan Valerius at your service." The man said, Gwynnifer gave a small, wry smile, at least the Imperials here still had respect for rank. "I don't know what you may have overheard but don't worry, we still have plenty to sell." He put on a smile that was convincing enough though it didn't quite reach his eyes, a robbery then, those did tend to put shopkeepers on edge, well hopefully she had enough money, and not inconsiderable haggling skills, to reimburse some of what he'd lost, in exchange for goods, of course.

"Let's have a look at your clothing, I am weary from the road and long for something nicer than this." She gestured to her garments which were by no means beggar's fare but could certainly be better for a woman of stature. Lucan nodded and stepped back along a wall, pulling up a heavy looking wooden chest that he sat down heavily on the counter with a thud. As she expected the vast majority of his clothing stock was peasant garbs, the things that common citizens wore to keep themselves decent and protected from exposure but nothing truly appealing at first, "Oh, very nice." The Breton said as she lightly touched a very well crafted and expertly sewn robe that thrummed with inert magicka, a proper wizard's robe. It was mantled, light gray in overall color with darker brown to compliment near the color and as the under-padding and interior of the thing. "These and any dusty tomes on magic you have, I am in need of brushing up on my craft."

The merchantman moved again before setting a stack of no less than eight volumes before her. "You know, these are a good start but if you want to really learn about magic, the College of Winterhold is always accepting new students." He meant well, she knew that, which is why she didn't snap at him but gave another small smile.

"I'll look into it, thank you." Though she had no such intentions. Lucan, as it turned out, was a masterful haggler, and while she did end up leaving with some coin intact, the man was a master of his art and the purse Freya had handed her was substantially lighter than when she went in. All in all she had eight tomes, the set of robes, a pair of shoes, a rather pretty necklace of gold with a ruby in the center of the medallion that reminded her of home, and a large shoulder sack with which to carry it all made of finely crafted leather that she slung over her shoulders after packing it with the things she'd bought and made her way towards the door once more. "Hey, could you take care of something for me?" Lucan called behind her, and beside herself, the Breton turned to speak to him some more.

Pushing one of her many purses into the hands of the noblewoman, Freya stepped away from and up onto a raised wooden platform with an overhang, the rhythmic banging of a hammer on iron or steel meeting her ears every step of the way. She was a few steps from the forge itself when someone considerably smaller than herself bumped into her causing her to pause. The little girl, and there was little mistake about that as she barely came up to Freya's waist, was wearing a small leather apron and she had heat-welts on her hands, which themselves were calloused from, if she had to guess, handling hammers.

"Hi there!" The child said cheerfully not once considering that perhaps she had had dishonorable intentions?

"Hello?" Freya half-stated but mostly questioned.

"My father is the blacksmith, I'm his helper—I mean assistant." The girl said with beaming pride. That explained a bit, no doubt it was her job to slow people down from bothering said father, who was turning towards them as he set his hammer, a heavy looking thing on a long handle into a leather loop on his belt not unlike how a war-ax would hang.

"Greetings, stranger, not every day we get visitors here in Riverwood, what can I do for you?" He had a warm and friendly voice that belayed his broad shoulders and powerfully built arms.

"My sword was damaged in a skirmish recently with a few bandits." Freya began as she unslung the sword, sheath and all from her belt. "I was hoping that you might be able to fix it, I'd be glad to give whatever your asking price was, as well."

The blacksmith took the steel from her and went over it with a careful eye, one borne of many years of practice at his art. "Twenty drakes and I'll set your hilt and pommel again, another five and I'll sharpen it for you, should be done by tomorrow morning, I'd say today but the sawmill's saw needs new teeth." He held out his free hand and Freya grasped it strongly. "Alvor of Riverwood." The smith said kindly as they shook.

"Freya of Bruma." The Bard replied kindly. "Tomorrow will be fine, my traveling companion and I have been a long time on the road and could use the rest before continuing on." She admitted without falsehood, after the events of the morning, rest sounded just fine.

"Say, you come up the south road?" The smith said as he set her sword against the wall while Freya counted out his septims.

"Aye?" Freya tentatively answered.

"Normally I don't pay much mind to what Sven's mother says, but I saw a rather large black shadow out of the south this morning, huge thing, like a dragon out of the old stories. See anything like that?" The smith asked earnestly, and Freya sighed inwardly before she answered.

"Aye, the ruddy thing assaulted Helgen, the survivors other than myself are my companion and a few dozen who took off towards Falkreath." She said without a single ounce of lie or tale on her tongue, the blacksmith didn't go pale like she'd expected but his jaw did tighten some.

"Tell you what, friend," The smith hefted his hammer and unsheathed her sword. "You do me the greatest of favors, I'll fix your sword here as quick as possible as to be done at a decent quality and I'll try to mend that crack in your shield too, and if I can't I'll replace it outright."

Freya blinked, she hadn't even noticed her shield was cracked, that bloody dragon was causing her more and more headaches. "Certainly?"

"If there's a dragon on the loose, Jarl Balgruuf in Whiterun needs to know, Riverwood has no defenders, I'd be mighty obliged to you, friend."

"I could hardly leave you all at the mercy of a dragon, I'll tell him gladly." Freya stated easily as the blacksmith set about working on her blade. "How do I get to Whiterun from here, sorry, I'm foreign still." She gave a soft laugh, the smith cracked a grin.

"Keep going up the Imperial Road here, then when you get to the bridge, go down below the buff, straight down from the falls at the edge too. If you want stairs, you could go up by Ebonvale, as well and that'll get you closer to the gates." Freya nodded as the man spoke and thanked him before she made her way towards the inn, figuring it would take some time for the man to fix her sword and in dire need of a drink as she came to consider the stresses of her day so far, and it wasn't even noon yet!

Ducking into the inn itself, Freya searched out for Gwynnifer, there wasn't precisely a large collection of buildings in this town open to random wanderers, after all. She found her occupying a stool at the bar and walked up alongside her as the two inn-keepers got into an argument of sorts over the nature of potatoes, of all things. "I hope my lady found everything to her liking?" The Bard asked as she sat down, the Breton smirked into the wine-glass of pewter which amusingly was filled with water.

"Shoes, so you can have your boots back, as well as a few books and a pack." The noblewoman responded as her spare hand lifted a spoon that was submerged into a three quarters-eaten bowl of soup. "Barkeep." The noble stated, a very bored looking Nord man looked up from his conversation with a short blonde woman who even out of the corner of Gwynnifer's eye could tell was a fellow Breton. "Refill?" She motioned to the bowl, the man nodded and in a few seconds set another bowl in front of her as she emptied the first one.

"Anything I can get you, kinsman?" He directed the question towards Freya.

"Preferably anything with alcohol in it. I've had a long morning." The bard replied, setting a pile of coins on the counter-top. "I'll be paying my lady's tab as well." He nodded in understanding and set a surprisingly chilled mug of strong ale in front of her. "Frostsalts." He replied as though he could see the question on her face, and in honesty he probably could.

"I may have agreed to do something for the shopkeep." Gwynnifer said plainly, Freya swallowed her first taste of Nordic ale that wasn't imported and set her mug down before she answered.

"Likewise, my lady. I agreed to take message to the Jarl in Whiterun regarding a certain situation you know of." Freya was careful not to let news out, it was a necessary withholding of information lest people understandably panic, to which Gwynnifer nodded.

"We'll do that after we've fished out Lucan's heirloom from a collection of bandits who decided to rob him." The noblewoman said simply before she resumed eating as though she hadn't in days. "We'll trek up the mountain as soon as we're don- Where's your sword?" Out of the corner of her eye she noticed it, and just barely.

"Repairs." Freya responded between long droughts of ale. The mage, accepting the answer, shrugged and went back to her soup, when that was empty, and looking satisfied she stood. Knowingly, Freya quickly finished her drink and did likewise as well as dropping another small bag of coins on to the counter, this was swept away without word by the barkeep as a blonde woman came out of a side room and began arguing with him over snacks to go with the drinks.

Out in the sunlight once more, the two took a long look at the gargantuan ruin that loomed over the village, casting long shadows even at its distance with its great immensity. "That thing?" Freya asked.

"Yeah, that thing. I don't much like the thought of it either." The Breton noblewoman responded before the Bard walked off to retrieve her sword, assuming of course it was done. Freya returned a moment later, the soldier's broadsword at her right-side once more as well as she was holding another blade, a short steel sword in the Imperial style which she held out to Gwynnifer wordlessly.

The noblewoman blinked a few times but clumsily took the surprisingly heavy thing for something so small, and with some assistance tied the scabbard to her left-side with a leather belt that thankfully had come with it. "I have no idea how to use one of these." She finally admitted, to which Freya chuckled softly.

"That much was obvious as we were putting it on you. Consider it insurance, my lady, nothing more. This only comes out if they get passed me and your presumably formidable magic doesn't turn them into cinders." The Bard explained as the two began down the Imperial Road.

In a sparse few moments later they had crossed a stone bridge, and climbed a short hill into another settlement, Ebonvale according to a sign and the word of the blacksmith and the reason it had that name was apparent and immediate. Every man-at-arms in the settlement, and there were at least two dozen, were wearing from head to toe, thick impossibly finely crafted ebony armor and wielded equally finely crafted ebony long swords. "Nice reminder to never start trouble here, ever." Freya said very evenly as they quickly stuck to their goal, rather than being distracted by the township or its peoples, who were, judging by the amount of trade wagons coming in and out, certainly quite wealthy enough to justify such a well armed security force.


	5. IV

The Elder Scrolls V: A Bard's Tale

IV

As the two women approached a decrepit looking tower that oversaw the valley below it, as well as the approach from what was now Ebonvale to the massive temple at the peak of the mountain, Freya paused a moment, biding Gwynnifer to do the same. "Look." The Nord pointed, in the distance there were a few figures moving, all appeared to be in varying states of armament, as well. "Ruins such as these are often the preferred base of operations for bandits, cultists, name it and it probably lives in them."

The Breton noblewoman stared at her companion dubiously, she was sheltered but not an idiot, and well aware of the dark places of the world, to a certain extent anyway. "So, bandits? Would you like to see that 'magnificent magic' as you put it?" Gwen gave a simile that could've been construed as sociopathic at best and left the Nord woman, morbidly curious, nodding.

Gwynnifer stepped away from the Bard, walking a few paces ahead of her before she stopped and started weaving her craft, silent words traced in glyphs through the air, drawing on ancient arts older than men as she pulled raw magic from the air around her and began to shape it, a furious red tint taking to the air before her, catching the attention of the distant figures, who began to move towards the small mage, bows were drawn, evident by the fact an arrow whizzed by her head, missing her by a hair's breadth.

Then, the purest blue-white flame erupted from the air before her, consuming, enveloping outward in more than just a display of power, it burned so hot it scorched the rocks of the mountain black, devouring stone and soil. The figures, now revealed to be several men in ragged looking armors, turned to flee, but it was not enough. The flames were upon them in an instance, pawing at them hungrily with gaping maws of heat and fire. The men were reduced to ash in mere seconds, the fires dissipating as though they had never existed, the only evidence of their coming at all was the cherry glow of some of the rocks of the mountainside, heated so thoroughly as they were, and the puddles of ashen melt that once were men and their equipment.

A ragged breath of tiredness came from the mage as her spell completed itself, the draw upon her mana reserves, not necessarily inconsiderable, was great and it took her a moment to do anything but breathe. Freya, situated behind the mage, still felt the heat of the consuming fire, and though she showed no fear, it was in that moment she realised that her companion and liege-lady at this point, was a most dangerous person indeed.

"Was that… simple? My lady?" The Nordic bard finally voiced, her tone as quiet as it was filled with awe.

"Hm? No, not at all, it takes years of practice and training, intense meditation and inner reflection to be capable of summoning hellfire." Gwynnifer said honestly, tucking her hands inside her sleeves in order to hide their intense shaking. "The vast majority of my arsenal is not so extravagant, I merely desired to show you what I am capable of if you feel I will be a burden in the throes of combat." The noblewoman continued as they walked forward once more. Freya veered off at the tower, combing it over for treasures, returning with a few purses of gold coins, a light shield and several precious gems that she handed to the Breton who accepted them graciously, best to keep up what appearances the small-folk expected of their betters, after all.

The trudge around the mountain was almost pleasant, save for the whipping, chill winds native of Skyrim that shook the Breton to her core, and caused Freya to pause against it in her steps as well. The inherent resistance to frost and cold in her Nordic blood did little to deter the storming winds that were not natural in feel, this was clarified when the two rounded the jagged corner at the top of the frozen pathway, having slowly made their way forward and the wind and white dissipated almost instantly. The air remaining chilled, but fell utterly calm. Before them, even in ruin, was a splendor to behold. Built into the very mountain that it crowned, the temple was a grand thing, erected before the end of the times of myth, when mighty dragons flew and man was small in the world. Great pillars of stone held up a roof of crafted granite weaved on top of what appeared to be either marble or bone, the latter being more likely judging by the off-white and dusky color of it. The structure more than just sat with the mountain, it consumed it, a grand staircase of hewn stone that once was carved to the point of ascending mere masonry, becoming an art unto itself. Tiny figures against the backdrop of the ruin moved between keeping watch and small smokeless fires to keep warm atop the platform that led into the grandiose temple, a massive flat thing crafted of stone blacker than ebony. "I don't suppose you have a bow?" Gwynnifer asked as they stopped moving next to a low stone post, the remnants of a once proud archway judging by the scattered stones near it.

"No, never could shoot straight." Freya admitted, scanning the horizon and counting the little heads in the distance. "There's four at least, not counting the ones I can't see because of those pillars."

"Six, actually." Gwynnifer said, threading a spell between her fingers, an odd energy spinning in the void between her hands, a sickly green light that whispered ghastly things into the air. "Being able to detect life force is a useful skill, handmaiden." The mage said as the spell dissipated. "Surprise is not a weapon we will be able to take advantage of here, they will see us as soon as we advance on them."

"We should hope they don't shoot straight, then." Freya said as she set her shield in front of her. "Stay behind me." The bard hefted her sword and took a step forward. Nothing dramatic happened immediately, the sky was unnaturally clear and the distant figures grew in definition as the two approached at a crawl. The first arrow came some twenty seconds into the trot, embedding itself into Freya's shield, though not penetrating. The second and third followed soon after, whipping passed the two as their pace quickened in response. The distance, a sparse dozen yards, were closed to a semi-coordinated volley of arrows from three bows, two missed, another sank into the shield, their luck holding out. The first bandit to draw a melee weapon did so as the two reached the bottom of the ornate stairs. The brigand, who hefted a large warhammer, came in with a mighty blow meant to crush armor and bone into rent steel and fine powdered bone meal. His blow met against Freya's shield, the ironbound wood held, barely, under the torrent, yielding inward a few centimeters and sending the bard backwards with a ragged cry of pain, for his own part the smug bastard looked almost pleased with himself, at least for the last few seconds of his life as his fur armor, good for keeping out the cold but not for much else, caught fire via a well timed spell from Gwynnifer, a gout of flames erupting from her hands as she stepped from behind Freya with not a second to lose as the other woman finished reeling from the impact.

Freya had not quit the fight, however, and discarded her shield upon raising her sword, holding the armament in both hands she brought it down in a rending blow of her own, cleaving through skin, musculature, sinew and bone into the flaming man's head, putting his screaming and his infernal misery to an end. The bard withdrew from the swing, a wild, nearly animal look in her eyes as she advanced up the stairs and closed distance between herself and another of the malcontents. The second one, a harried looking woman slightly older than either of the pair, hefted an iron long sword common to such people in a defensive stance that was ill timed. Freya's sword landed against hers in such an impact that the blade renounced itself from existence, the brittle nature of iron showing itself at the worst possible time. The slash did not stop, as the full weight of the Bard was behind the swing and she found purchase in the brigand's right arm, not so much slicing as bludgeoning through the usually strong bones of the woman's forearm sending them reeling in screeching agony as precious lifeblood spilled across the ancient bones that the platform was made up of.

Simultaneously, Gwynnifer very simply lobbed a duo of fireballs into the faces of the two would-be archers that had the height advantage over the dueling three, the first missed and the noblewoman cursed softly in response, the second however had no reservations as it found home in the bandit's face, literally. While the scorching heat did not immediately ignite them into their own funerary pyre, it did send them into a hasty retreat away from the edge, in time to dodge the fierce lightning bolt that slammed into the chest of their compatriot. The bandit, a Bosmeri elf, went rigged very suddenly before spasming so hard they broke their own back, falling to the ground limp and unmoving, innards and nervous-system thoroughly overloaded. The noblewoman flashed a dark smile as she and Freya reached the top of the stairs, the Nord breaking off wordlessly in engagement with another bandit, this one hefting a battleaxe. The bandit left to Gwynnifer rightly looked terrified.

Fighting a mage was dangerous business, a swordsman, a spearman, anyone with a physical weapon you could predict, defend against, take measures. Magi? There was no such luck. All you could do is dodge and hope they ran out of mana. The nerdowell's spine didn't completely fleet their body however, and with a wary battle-cry they hurled themselves at Gwynnifer, a small dagger drawn from their belt. The noblewoman smiled again, weaving magicka with astounding speed she never said a word that the bandit could hear, which did nothing to lessen the effect of what hit them. It was to her, a simple spell, but an old one, and with age came power in the domains of magic. Lightning struck the bandit not unlike what had happened to their friend, unlike their friend, it was not a mere spark. The Finger of the Mountain, an ancient spell born of Ayleid magics in Cyrodiil, coursed through their body with the force of an angry god. Gwynnifer's smile abated quickly when the bandit fell over, limp, their body charred into an unsettling blackened color wholly different from what was conferred by the flame of heat; dark splotches of blue mixed in with the coal. Gwynnifer didn't see the third archer until the arrow was embedded in her shoulder.

A scream alerted Freya, who spun on her heel as the Bard's opponent fell away gurgling on their own blood. Across the distance of perhaps thirty yards, the charred and smelling remains of two bandits had done nothing to curtail the desperate will to survive of their last remaining compatriot, who drew back their longbow, another arrow notched to finish what they had started. Thirty yards was too vast a distance to cover in a split second, Freya, thinking quickly drew on the lessons she'd taken from her books and channeled her own, quite insignificant reserves of magicka, concentrating. A small wisp like fireball shot forth from her hand, it wasn't strong, but it impacted against the bandit, throwing their arrow off which missed Gwynnifer by a large margin. The Breton noble had her own revenge a second later, when genuine dark magics leeched the life from the brigand whose body fell over, emaciated and destroyed down to a withered husk.

It was at that point, Freya noted internally, she was very much afraid of 'her lady'.


	6. V

A Bard's Tale

V

The interior of the temple was every bit impressive and decrepit at once. Long shadows were cast by flickering fires based in immense stone urns replete with oil undisturbed for uncounted millennium prior to the violation of the ancient structure by its various assailants through the long years. Freya and Gwynnifer ducked low within, despite the magnificently cavernous nature of the place, hiding in the shadows as they moved forward, Freya's shield to the front, lacking in embedded arrows once more. The ease of their stealth was not lost on the pair as they passed the bodies of several more bandits within the entrance hall alone. The room's titanic nature flared out beyond the collapsed pillars that formed that hall into a grand gallery submerged in a deep blackness at the opposite end of which was a brightly burning flame, the only source of light. Freya steeled herself and tried not to appear fearful, Gwyn made no such attempts as they advanced into the shadow.

As the dark enveloped them, Gwyn threaded her magicka into another spell, running her fingers gently over her eyes the mage blinked once in the process that once completed allowed her crystal clear vision in the inky darkness. The floor was a mural, the walls were murals, the pillars were murals, inscribed in loving detail they told the stories of heroes and villains, of gods and kings, of mortal men and immortal dragon. They told of an era before the grip of Auri-El's steadfast control of time. These were impressive and humbling in equal parts whether one was a scholar or a layman farmer. The duo stepped over the misshapen bodies of more fallen bandits as they crept forward, Freya taking her time at first, picking forward with a careful toe before moving. The clan that assailed this place, who robbed Lucan, were prior to this, obviously enormous and prosperous. What madness, Gwyn wondered, could have possessed them to loot tombs such as these when merchants were simply less dangerous and nearly as valuable.

The edge of the darkness approached quickly. Freya set her shield again and stood proud as she waltzed into the firelight. The two brigands there had been arguing over a compatriot of theirs deeper within the ruin, and were ill suited to rise from the fire they tended fast enough to avoid the bard's swift and accurate sword. Both fell with loud, echoing yells that reverberated with unnatural song throughout the gallery. The bard moved forward, Gwyn coming into her shadow after canceling out her spell-weaving to step into the light. "So much for Nordic honor?" The Breton noblewoman questioned, Freya shrugged.

"Bandits, brigands, cutthroats and thieves are not worthy of honor, my lady. Besides, I'm not a very Nordic Nord, if that makes any sense." The bard professed plainly as she lifted one of the healthier burning branches from the fire, holding it aloft she led the way as the duo walked over to the first depression in the room since it began. A crumbling staircase greeted them, fragile looking made of splintered stones and long rotted wood. "So do we..?" The question floated in the air for several seconds, Gwynnifer more than a little skittish about the prospect of delving into the depths of the mountain temple. "Yes." The Breton finally said, trepidation in her tone as they walked down the steps.

The stairs themselves were deep, ponderous things that nearly made a person of Freya's height kneel, while Gwynnifer outright did end up looking like she was kneeling. At their bottom a corridor flared out into the deepness of the mountain, the fire of their adhoc torch the only natural source of light. "This is more than absence of light." Gwynnifer said very plainly as the corridor bled away while they walked, shadows licked at their passing feet as things older than light gnawed at the corners of the world. "Something powerful dwells here, something dark." The noblewoman's tone of voice was laced with terror, terror of the unknown, and of the power that sat deep within this hallowed ground. Neither woman could guess at the nature of the latent energies that focused around this place and so many others like it, ancient and nearly beyond measure.

A collapsed archway gave way, with some effort of shifting between fallen rocks, to a smaller corridor that led downward evermore. At the bottom of more ponderous stairs the flicker of firelight could be seen among the darkness. Gwynnifer stepped in front of Freya as they reached the bottom of the shorter staircase and raised a hand, a click of her fingers sounded against the echo of the temple, the small sound the precursor to an eruption of light born of pure mana that floated lazily in the air, its radiance akin to that of a candle. "You should drop the torch before it burns your hand." The noblewoman said as they went further, at the end of the corridor was a doorway that through the miracles of the divines and the natural strength of an arch, had not collapsed. A wide room greeted them, the corpse of a bandit was lain against a pedestal not far from the doorway, their body perforated by countless needles, whether or not the ancient poisons were still effective, unlikely due to their age, the sheer amount of sharp wooden splinters that jutted from their flesh was more than enough to serve as death by a thousand cuts. Freya, as was her tradition, ran the bandit's pockets, producing an unharmed coin purse that she tied to her hip as Gwynnifer took to examining the closer of the room's sidewalls.

No murals of ancient deeds were held here, instead in their place were ancient totems in depressed basins, the Breton touched one lightly and to her amazement, it moved. The images of intricately carved beasts were upon the totems, showing the visage of a hawk, a whale and a snake. "Ninety different possible combinations, though not apparently this one." Gwyn noted shortly, examining the layout of whale, snake and hawk the brigand had attempted before their death. "Freya," Gwyn started…

Freya herself was in no hurry to end up like the dead man a scant few feet from her, taking time to examine the rest of the room, slightly lower stairs led to a raised dais that the bard climbed atop of in search of valuables and other equipment, finding a trio of crystal potion jars that oddly weren't laced with dust, obviously having been left behind by previous, more modern, occupants than the temple's builders. The bard found her attention drawn to the wall alongside the shallow overhang that comprised the dais's far side, the intricately carved figures standing out among the deep shadows cast by Gwyn's candlelight spell. "Yes, my lady?" The bard responded to the noblewoman with what was quickly becoming instinct.

"Come take a look a these." Gwynnifer stated more than asked, the bard jumping down from the raised platform lightly, landing with a roll. "What do you make of this?" The noblewoman gestured uselessly at the totem devices, Freya shrugged, having been in enough ruined Alyeid cities in Cyrodiil that this sort of thing wasn't surprising to her in the least.

"Combination lock, my lady. The ancients weren't very smart about them either, have a look." The bard pointed around the room, at a pile of rubble with a totem face sticking out of it, and then up onto the dais, where two more were firmly affixed to the wall. "The combination is almost always near by." The Nord moved deftly, orienting each totem to their appointed and correct position before crossing to the lever in the center of the floor. "Stand clear, just in case." Though the trap had been expended it was hard to tell if that was the only magazine of splinters the old tomb possessed… The lever heaved when Freya pushed on it, not yielding an inch until the Nord had put every ounce of her weight behind the thing, leaving her nearly prostrate in the action. She was beginning to notice that her ancient forebears had a thing for kowtowing. Ancient gears deep within the structure of bone and stone ground audibly, echoing through the deep until with a final lurch the rusted gate before the lever was yanked upward with agonizing slowness before becoming stuck nearly at the top, unmoving from then onward. "I'm glad we know how to duck?" Freya incredulously noted as she stepped up to the gate, beyond there was torchlight from scones in the walls, likely maintained by the bandits they kept stumbling across.

Gwyn gave off a melodic giggle that reverberated down the corridor beyond the gate as they walked through, Freya did indeed have to duck, though the Breton did not by a hair. "The benefits of being small." There was a singsong quality to her tone that made Freya smile lightly before her face returned to stoic seriousness. Another platform with a decaying stone table was a few feet in front of them, with practiced skill the Bard went over it for valuables, gathering ancient coins made of ebony that she inspected for a minute. "Harald Hand-Free, High King of Skyrim." The obverse side was that of an old man, carved into the metal by a skilled hand. "Huh, I wonder if these are any good any more?"

"I doubt it, though some collectors pay top drakes for things like this." Gwynnifer mentioned as she picked up a book next to the coins. "This seems interesting, a technical manual on the nature of locks and locksmithing, the legal kind." The noble dropped the book into her bag as Freya scooped up the old coins, the two moving over to a shaft in the ground, rotting wood older than countries formed a staircase that led down into the pit. "After you, my lady." Freya said lacking in humor or mirth. "However slightly, you're smaller than I am, which means you're lighter, if it doesn't collapse under you, I'll follow."

Gwynnifer's face nearly fell when her handmaiden said that, the Breton noblewoman sighed and clicked her fingers, a sheen of dull gold enveloping her form from head to toe. "Yes, I suppose I am." Gwyn said with a hint of sarcasm as she descended the stairs so lightly they did not creak a single time. When she reached the bottom the mage clicked her fingers again, dispelling the simple feather spell that had indeed leavened her. "Well, come on then." She called from the bottom.

Freya was not truly heavy framed, that didn't stop the antiquated wood from groaning mightily beneath her weight however. It could've been a literal rat and the oak slabs very likely would have begun to yield, at over a thousand years old, they were just that aged. The bard reached the bottom with little issue, though the moment she stepped off the last step, the entire staircase collapsed in a heap of splinters and dust behind them, leaving the two coughing as they stepped out into another room that was filled with the light of a burning oil basin. "I sincerely hope there is another way out of here." The bard muttered bitterly as they came across another table, this one laden down with a variety of antiquated knives made of stone and what looked like bone. "Your ancestors had a thing for not being wasteful." Gwyn said dryly as she lifted a tattered parchment scroll from the table, unfurling and reading it to herself. "These runes are expectantly as old as the rest of this place, I'm impressed that this hasn't decayed."

"What does it say?" Freya scooped another handful of Haralds into her coin purse.

"It's the details of how to summon a storm atronach." The Breton explained as the two went over the room in a once over, they were getting better at spotting valuable assets such as gemstones and equipment. "An art I thought to be lost, they haven't been summoned in Tamriel in at least a thousand years."

"Interesting." The bard remarked in countenance before a desperate yell echoed down from deeper within the ruin. "Is... is someone coming? Is that you Harknir!? Bjorn!? Soling!? I know I ran ahead with the claw, but I need help!" The voice's echo rang through the temple like a bell.

"I suppose we ought to go help the idiot whose friends' we've been killing." Freya offered, advancing down the corridor.

The hallway itself differed from the ones before it, flaring out as they had with one distinct difference, this tunnel was in _far_ better shape than the preceding ones had been. Gwynnifer felt no latent magics that were not related to the background of dark power deeper within the temple, yet this place was nearly new in comparison to its outer shell. "Something isn't right here." Both women said in tandem, announcing the obvious as they came to a halt outside a room blocked off by spider silk. "Giant spiders, wonderful." Freya laced her tone with heavy sarcasm as Gwyn concentrated on the webbing, burning it away with searing hot flames.

"Yeah, as wonderful as Altmeri delusions of supremacy." Gwyn agreed before stepping through the doorway.

It came down from the ceiling, landing heavily with hot breath that could be smelled from the entrance. Light came in from above, where the spider had tunneled, burrowed and carved its way through solid mountain rock for who knows how many years uncounted. Powerful mandibles flicking at the air as it hissed audibly towards the adventurers. Freya set her shield and readied her sword, casting a wary eye to Gwyn as she did so. The bard had no real desire to fight something this big, or more importantly this poisonous. Gwynnifer nodded softly in understanding, threading magicka through her palms and stepping forward. The spider hissed loudly again, a gob of poison laced spit hurling from its mandibles towards the noblewoman.

The gob itself was stopped cold by a ward that Gwynnifer threw up a split second before impact, a second later the spider was speared by a spike of supernatural ice the size of a large dog, piercing its body from the front the lance of super-cooled air penetrated the spider's multitude of eyes causing the creature to screech, reeling in pain as it did so. Gwyn followed up with cold fire, the lightning bolt that arced from her fingers was no mere collection of magical sparks, but instead a "real", if not artificially created, thunderbolt. It cracked through the stale air of the temple as the atmosphere was displaced in its passing, the chamber glowed a brilliant white hot for a split second before the bolt impacted with its intended target. The spider's body went rigid very suddenly before falling limp, the scent of burnt flesh and many small hairs filling the air.

"Praise be to Arkay, you killed it." A voice interrupted any intended celebration, the Breton brought her eyes to the source, a Dunmer shackled to a doorway arch just on the other side of the deceased arachnid. "Cut me down, quickly! You wouldn't believe the power that the Nords have hidden here."

Gwyn quirked an eyebrow and motioned for Freya to do so, the bard moved up to the Dunmer and gave him a cold look. "Power I assume you intend to steal for yourself?" She remarked coldly as her sword found purchase in the webbing, the dark elf flinched with each successive blow, though he exclaimed happily when it loosened to the point he fell to the floor.

Before he could move another inch, Freya's boot was in his chest, her sword pointed at his throat as Gwynnifer came up to the two.

"I believe you have something that belongs to one Lucan Valerius." Gwynnifer stated dryly, looking over the elf with the same amount of interest that she gave a fly before swatting it. "Return it, and I shall restrain my handmaiden." As through to cement the threat, Gwyn summoned a fireball to her palm.

The Dunmer, understandably gulped audibly before he began speaking. "Yes! The claw, the claw, the murals in the hall of stories, I know how it all works, how it all strings together! Release me and I'll show you, we can split it!" He sounded hopeful, and more than a little zealous.

Freya cast a glance to her lady, who shrugged before speaking. "If you are referring to the steady thrum of innate magicka, which I'm sure you can feel as a member of elvenkind, I doubt that any of us here assembled could make use of such power. It is darkened by both the passage of time and the purpose of its existence. It _feels_ wrong, I'm sure you can tell." Her words were scientific and clinical in nature, belaying no secrets or scathing tone.

The dark elf chewed on his thoughts for a few seconds before he reached into his armor's folds and produced the claw, holding it aloft. "Here." Gwynnifer deftly snatched the bauble and waved her other hand, now free of fire, lazily toward Freya.

"Well, let him up. He may be a brigand and a thief but he is at our mercy, that's not a place to kill someone." The noblewoman said kindly, Freya huffed before helping him up.

Both were left mildly impressed when he didn't dart off immediately. "I, am Arvel the Swift."

"We don't care." Freya wasn't kind, but true to herself she did not cut the man down immediately. "You said you understand this place? Lead the way, and so help me by Meridia I will hunt you and your descendants if you attempt to abandon us."

"Sure, sure. Follow me." The Dunmer muttered shortly before turning and walking down the corridor he'd been strapped to the entrance of. The trio passed rooms filled with urns stacked to the ceilings in perfectly ordained rows, dust and grime free they shined in the torchlight, alongside these were innumerable sarcophagi carved directly from the bedrock of the mountain that surrounded them. Shelves and armories were resplendent with boxes, bags and chests full of ebony coins, of stone and ebony tools, weaponry and armor. It was an archaeologist's and adventurer's dream setting, the wealth of all the nations of Tamriel gathered in one place. Passed the elaborate storage of gold, jewels and weapons came the tombs. Where the entrance had contained presumably royals, priests and other such important folk, within here lay the common folk of yesteryear, rows of immaculately kept wall crypts carved out of the mountainside held gods knew how many bodies, row after row of them all in eerily pristine condition as they lay in eternal slumber, _completely_ undisturbed.

Gwynnifer held a hand to her temple as they walked on, the innate magicka that was thrumming at the background was getting _louder_ she swore. What had begun as barely a whisper was reaching the crescendo of a repeating scream. The noblewoman leaned on her handmaiden the further they went, and was, like Arvel, nearly smeared across a wall when he stepped on a pressure plate that caused an old trap to swing out and impale the Dunmer. "We're not alone." The mage uttered, her tone barely audible when the groans started.

From the wall tombs came the warriors of old, dressed in their armor, their muscles aged and maintained by the profane magics of the place they stood to defend against the invaders in pairs, then quadruples, until in full countenance stood no more than ten, no less than eight, ancient Nords, wicked stone and ebony weapons levied at the two women, wordless in their advance. Freya fanned out from Gwyn, placing the Breton behind her, and behind the Breton one of the only solid walls that had no tomb carved out of it. Her sword bit and found purchase again and again, carving into ancient armor that gave only due to the age of the metal, yet it was largely for naught. The creatures felt neither fear nor pain, their advance continuous and unyielding.

Freya tired, though her face remained bravely stoic, her muscles burned, her reactions were slower and slower, however slightly. Of the ten undead, only four had fallen, and only then after she'd taken off their heads with lucky blows. "My lady… A little help would be appreciated." The Nordic bard's tone had a string of begging in it, she knew she wasn't going to last much longer…

The pounding in her head wasn't in her head, Gwynnifer realized as the zombies rose from death. It was deeper, beyond and below muscle, below flesh and bone, it was within her very spirit. The same word, over and over again, force, force, force. Like a symphony that had no end the clangor of noise drove the Breton to her knees as it repeated in the deepest part of her mind's eye. Freya's voice was distance and disingenuous when she finally heard it, snapping the noblewoman back to reality.

"Get behind me!" She screeched to the Nord, threading magicka as swiftly as her mind could allow her to do so. The sweltering heat grew as the Breton chanted, her words becoming more erratic over the duration of the incantation until finally, the spell she'd used on the mountainside came forth in a rush of blazing fire. The air took on a hue of hostile red embers as stone melted and bone splintered, aged armors buckled before melting, bone and sinew held together by magics undone by the same. The small crowd of undead simply _ceased_ to be, the glowing cherry red of the chamber gradually giving way to the smell of molten rock and scorched bone as an unsettling darkness encroached upon the two, then, Gwynnifer promptly fainted.

The Breton fell backwards, seemingly lifeless into the haphazardly readied arms of her handmaiden who fell, absorbing the impact of the fall for both of them, her backpack once more serving as a cushion for the tumble. "No no, don't be dead, don't be dead!" The Nord did not like the thought of losing a newly found friend, and her only aid in this gods forsaken place. She offered swift and silent prayer to every one of the Magna-Ge as she gently shook her companion, trying to rouse her…

Gwyn opened her eyes a moment later, bleary and tired looking the mage took in the sight of her frantic Nordic compatriot shaking her, causing her to almost smile. "I'm not dead." The noble croaked. It had been a long time since her mana pool had drained completely, a sensation that usually passed within seconds for her without any ill affects. "Praise Mara." Freya smiled lightly. "You're alright, I trust, my lady?"

"Something I'll get over once we get out of here, do you have any magicka potions?" The Breton said as she stood from their precarious position, somewhat glad the darkness hid her furious blush, she wasn't used to having to lean on people, much less be literally caught by them. Nobility came with an expectation, and she fulfilled those expectations to their fullest! Still, she clicked her fingers and summoned another ball of light, the thrum of magicka still present in her ears and smiled as Freya handed her a small vial with bluish liquid in it after standing.

"We can only hope that this place isn't filled with even more of these, or if there are, they are far fewer in number." Freya remarked as they started walking again, down through thankfully empty corridors into a natural cavern, so the ruin didn't consume the entire mountain after all. Though that thought was short lived, as the temple resumed on the other side of the cavern. This area was even more overgrown than the entrance hall, great winding roots of trees that gripped deeply into the earth ate at the edifices of stone, disrupting the symmetry of the place and displacing multi-ton slabs of granite with the same ease a child plucked fragile flowers. The two adventurers picked their way through gingerly, not wanting to disturb anything else that slept within, never mind the tree roots.

As the roots abated the temple resumed; the lower chambers were resplendent, even more so than the one they'd been cornered by the occupants of, the architecture hearkened back to a time before even Reman Cyrodiil's Second Empire, and treasures galore covered every surface once again. Freya at this point shrugged and gathered haralds as they went, if the occupants were going to try and kill them anyway, they may as well have gotten rich off it. Regardless, both were feeling the strain of battle at this point, and tiredness was catching up. They considered themselves lucky that there were no other adversaries before them until they came across a door.

The door itself was magnificent in every sense of the word, made of iron and ebony and wood it was strong and vibrant in defiance of the long drag of years against it. Great bands of moving material formed a locking mechanism the likes of which the world hadn't seen in an age, and likely never would again. Its intricate keyhole was a perfect fit for the golden claw, which turned the bands of material like a knob until all of them locked in their appropriate placement, a loud clicking noise reverberated through the air, the unusual echoing of the place never ceasing as Gwyn withdrew the claw from the door, which then fell into the floor with neither ceremony nor tardiness. The loud boom that it caused echoing low like the rumble of an ancient dragon…

There was no grand staircase behind the door, no great catacombs of tombs or amazing cities like both of them had come to expect, instead there was a grotto dominated by a river that flowed strongly through a central chamber the centerpiece of was a platform unlike the rest within the place. It was both incredibly plain and very ornate simultaneously, holding a low bearing wall that looked snapped off, the rubble of which lay behind it, destroyed by simple time. Etched across the wall's surface were _claw marks_ in the stone, which thrummed with magic, while to the fore of the wall was a single sarcophagus as black as night, the lid to which was thank the Divines, closed.

The closer the two got to the platform, the more uncomfortable Gwyn felt, each step's footfall hanging in her ears as a tongue shriller than all the music called her forward. Possessed by some ethereal force the Breton walked ahead of her companion who trotted to catch up, keeping a lookout for possible threats. Upon reaching the platform the two climbed with considerable ease, the stairs were low and cut for men, as opposed to the deep ponderous steps they'd encountered before. Gwynnifer came to a sudden halt at the base of the wall, her eyes scanning what was obviously writing, though she did not need to read it. The words were screamed in her head, in her very soul with a rumbling voice that sounded of fire and death. _Here lays the guardian of the dragonstone and a_ _ **force**_ _of darkness and rage._

That single word played over and over again, preemptively the Breton knelt in front of the wall, pondering, meditating nearly over the word, the meaning of the word, until it was etched into her spirit, then, the thrumming very suddenly stopped, and the world was equal parts cold and painfully silent.

Freya stood off at the edge of the platform as Gwyn went forward, she had no desire to be near it, something about it felt terribly wrong to the bard, instead she pilfered the altar next to the sarcophagus, finding more haralds, gemstones and a large, black gemstone in the shape of a soulgem, nearly legendary, black soulgems were neither easy to make, nor easy to find, naturally she pocketed it. When the lid of the sarcophagus jettisoned away from the casket, Freya sighed internally, screamed externally, readied her sword and placed herself between the altar and her lady.

Gwynnifer stood with a jolt when the lid of the sarcophagus jettisoned away, landing with a clangor of noise some yards away. She threaded magicka between her palms and steeled herself, making note when Freya stood between the altar and herself. The undead that rose from the tomb was glorious. Its body while decayed with age despite mummification was armored in finely crafted ebony, not bone, and the sword it carried glistened with the ring of both metal and spell. Upon the dead warrior's head was a crown carved of iron and bone which accentuated its expressionless gray eyes, the warrior then spoke. A single phrase, loudly and quietly in the same unnatural breath. "Fus, Ro, Dah!" A wave of energy washed over the pair, bodily lifting them from the ground and slamming them back down expediently, air driven from their lungs.

Freya struggled to her feet in the aftermath of the shout, discarding her shield and holding her sword in both hands the bard with a shaky breath regarded the zombie in a new light, she was never coming into one of these places again so help her Dibella. The Nordic bard loosed a ragged battle-cry, charging the undead with sword held high, her sword found purchase in being parried by the warrior's own, the ringing of the impact sent her reeling in time to see the soft white light of magic impact the figure. It was not the harshness of fire, or the energy of lightning, but instead something entirely different. Only a second passed before the warrior in all its pride and splendor, collapsed in a heap…


	7. VI

**A Bard's Tale – VI**

Gwynnifer awoke with a start. She had no idea how long she'd been unconscious, nor how much time had passed in the interim. Nor did she recognize her immediate surroundings, _very_ comfortable bedding, finely shaped oak walls that did not yield to the howling wind as well as a roof of wooden tiles above her head.

"Good morning, sugar." A warm feminine voice off to her left side said causing the Breton to turn her head. "You had us scared there for a while, thought you were dead or pretty close to it. Your friend went on to Whiterun and said she'd meet you at the Bannered Mare; well, specifically she said she'd meet you at the inn, and Whiterun only has one inn worth mentioning." The keeper of the voice had the look of a local about her, though much more refined and haughty than some of the Nords that Gwyn had seen so far.

"My thanks, for assuring I didn't die." Gwyn found her voice after a moment and offered a ghost of a smile, to which the Nord woman simply smirked.

"Five hundred drakes," the Nord said. "Three days of bed rest would normally only run you two hundred, but I did have to keep our alchemist, Diane, and our resident mage, Marick, on call just to make sure you didn't make the trip to Sovngarde yet." Gwyn nearly fainted but instead keep her face neutral, as the highborn were taught and nodded in understanding.

"Five hundred Septims it is." Gwyn looked around the room, an expansive and well decorated thing with a wall safe, a chest for travellers and so on along or mounted on the walls. "My clothing?" She inquired to the Nord.

"Washed, pressed and dried. How'd you get tomato juice in downy?" The incredulous look from the Nord was answered with a slow blink and a single word response of 'fell'.

"Your purse is in the bedside table." The Nord said expectantly as she moved away from the bed to stand by the door. Gwyn took the hint and reached across the distant to the table, opening a draw and pulling out the small bag. The noble noted the weight, and silently thanked her absent handmaiden for being relatively wealthy before counting out about half of the purse before Gwyn regarded the Nord.

"Another three hundred on top of it if you help me get dressed." She _was_ a Lady, it was not proper to dress herself, gods forbid. As though to prove her point, Gwynnifer held up the purse in its entirety.

"Whatever you want, sugar." The Nord flashed a smile before leaving to retrieve the noblewoman's clothes…

* * *

A dozen milestones from Gwynnifer, Freya sat beneath a beleaguered and tired looking tree in the city of Whiterun, a couple days after having to convince the guards at the gate to let in outsiders, after all, she'd just seen a dragon burn an Imperial fort to the ground, which convinced him just fine.

News of dragon attacks preceded her though, and while she certainly had first hand-accounts of the event, it wasn't enough to get her an audience with the Jarl who had more pressing matters to deal with than another apparent sellsword come to beg for scraps. In hindsight she also should've carried her lady here, there was a temple to Kyne not ten feet away from her, a hall without doors and having a vaunted ceiling to catch the sound of the voice of their goddess, the wind itself.

The bard had offered prayers there before meandering through the streets of the city; it was smaller than the cities of Cyrodiil she noticed quickly, but it certainly wasn't for lack of trying. Merchants hawked wares from as far away as Argonia and as near as Dawnstar, imports from Morrowind, High Rock and Hammerfell were everywhere and ranged from creature comforts like Breton wine to practical things like Redguard swords and Bosmeri bows. The only things missing from the extravaganza were wares of Altmeri or Khajiiti origins, though the latter most was easily solved by stepping outside the city gates to a bazaar that had been set up by merchants who didn't want to pay the Jarl's tithe to do business in his city, and by Khajiit who were barred from entering.

Those not selling were usually buying, and were as varied as their mercantile counterparts, Nords made up the majority of course, but there were also Bretons, Dunmer, Bosmer, Altmer and even a few Argonians among the milling thousands. The scenery and its peoples reminded the Bard strongly of Chorrol or Chedyinhal in Cyrodiil.

At this exact moment however her eyes and ears were locked on a Redguard couple arguing a few feet away, the woman, who Freya assumed was the fellow's wife, was red in the face with fury and worry in equal parts, while the man was relatively nonplussed. Men, the Bard nearly scoffed, instead pushing herself to her feet and walking over to the duo just as the woman threw her arms in the air and stormed off ranting about how the man would be divorced and childless if he stepped outside the city's perimeter.

"Can I help you, stranger?" The Redguard turned his attention to Freya after unsuccessfully calling to his wife.

"Not that it's my business, but what was that about?" Freya offered him a cheery smile as she spoke, attempting to win him over with her easy-going nature.

"Huh? Oh, that." The Redguard offered her a hand and they shook. "My Saffir doesn't like that I've spent a lot of time looking for my father's old sword. It was stolen a few months ago and I finally tracked it down. Problem is I'm only one man, I'd need to hire the Companions or convince the guards that it's worth their time to get it back." The Redguard sighed, his shoulders slumping a bit. "I don't like the thought of my family's heirloom rotting in some thief's den, or worse, being sold off to Divines know where." He paced a bit, Freya nodded in understanding.

"I could retrieve it for you, if I come across it in my travels." The Bard offered warmly, ever the helpful personality.

"Huh." The Redguard sized her up for a moment before he nodded. "You've got the right look about you, friend. Sounds good, you find my father's sword and tell you what, I'll teach you a few combat techniques I learned from him, on top of some drakes."

Freya smiled and bowed slightly. "It'd be my pleasure..?"

"Amren. Now, if you'll excuse me." The Redguard nodded and walked off leaving Freya to do the same after giving her rough directions to where he was sure his sword was being held, though in the opposite direction as the Bard headed towards the inn she was staying at…

* * *

Gwyn approached the gates to Whiterun along with a train of people, mostly merchantmen and the like in late afternoon. Magnus was nearly done his daily commute when the noblewoman walked up to a Khajiit merchant standing behind a table in front of a large tent. "I'd like to see your jewelry. Bretonic if you have any."

The tiger, a Cathay if she had to guess, nodded and introduced themselves as Ri'saad and offered a polite smile, such as one that a Khajiit could manage before turning to check through stocks of what she assumed to be his rarer goods. They haggled prices over a finely crafted Breton style ring with an embedded ruby in the center for a few minutes, making small talk between the prices before Gwyn parted with the necessary count of drakes, after which the Khajiit offered to fit it to her hand, as it was a tad too large. Gwynnifer agreed, if only because it came at no extra charge and was bade around the table into the tent itself.

Within the tent, a large thing that was semi-obviously augmented with Alteration magics, were a myriad of goods ranging from common preserved foodstuffs to rarities such as Alinor's wine. Idly she thought to asking him the price of one of those but withheld, not wanting to part with everything loaned to her. Ri'saad followed behind her, bidding one of his companion Khajiit to take over the sales of his stall, a wiry genuine Ohmes taking up the task. It'd been some time since Gwynnifer had seen one of the man-faced denizens of Elsweyr.

As the Khajiit worked at his deft task, weaving the strands of aetherius along with a skilled hand as he worked the metal as it sat loosely on her hand the two of them discussed more pointed things, politics, the rebellion in Skyrim and news beyond, as a constant traveler, Ri'saad had stories from all over. The conversation lasted longer than the ring-fitting, which itself took only a few moments of finely tuned alteration. Gwyn parted with the three hundred septims with the practiced ease of nobility, on top of another fifty for the conversation. As the Breton stepped into the outside world again she ruminated shortly over what the cat had told her as she climbed the hill to the city's gates. The news of a dragon had spread with that lightning speed that only bad news could, but more importantly he supplied tidbits of intrigue beyond the frost-capped tundra and its airborne lizards.

Mostly, she was looking for news from High Rock, but the Cathay had none to give, having not been in the Breton homeland for almost a decade, making any news he had horribly outdated.

The gates of the city themselves were ornate wood bound with thick iron bands that were open for the day's business, though there was a sizable cue even this far into the afternoon. The Breton shrugged and walked around the cue, to the protest of those in it. Answering that protest a large man of Nordic stock in the colors of the Jarl stepped down from his post. "Alright, foreigner. What makes you think you're special?"

"I have news about the dragon attack on Helgen of the sort that your king would be most interested in. Additionally and I dare say more importantly, I am highborn." Gwyn regarded the man coolly and without hostility, nor did she look down on him from on high, though the stature of her short bearing told leagues to her character; the tiny noblewoman did not hide who she was in tone of voice or body language, as unwise as that could be.

The guardsman looked to his fellows and they shared a second long silent conversation between themselves before he turned back to her. "Alright, go on in, the Jarl is in Dragonsreach at the top of the hill, if anyone tries to stop you, you tell them you have permission from Captain Tyr Fire-Hair." "I apologize, my lady; times are tense with the war, and now dragons too, the whole world is going mad, it seems. Can never be too careful." Gwyn, to her credit, gave the man a knowing and understanding look as she walked by the protesting line who were told in no uncertain words to shut up and deal with it.

As Gwynnifer passed through the gatehouse and under portcullis the Breton noble stopped for a second in order to take a look around. The throngs of people were a combination of locals, merchants, pilgrims and tourists that were secondary to her observations as she instead concentrated on the relatively uniformly paved streets that wound around the slopes of the hill upon which Whiterun was built like running snakes before culminating in Dragonsreach. The golden roofed wooden palace was obscured to some degree by the buildings beneath it but it commanded the skyline of the city regardless and from her personal experience on approach, the countryside itself.

Walking down a broad avenue Gwyn nearly passed a smithy where an Imperial woman covered in fire ash and soot was arguing with a Nord demanding swords for the Legion which piqued her interest enough to stop and step over. The Imperial Legion contained their production needs to Cyrodiil and were largely self-supplied. If they were sending runners to local smiths things were more dire than the noblewoman first realized.

"Look, all I'm saying is that I _cannot_ personally fill an order that size on my own. I don't have an apprentice, my husband runs the store while I'm making the damn swords. I cannot realistically be expected to make two _thousand_ swords in a month, Battle-Born." The Imperial sounded tired, as though she'd had this conversation before with similar results each time. "I'll be with you in a moment, ma'am." She waved Gwyn off to the side, who nodded softly from her position of leaning against a support pillar patiently.

"Just go _ask the man_." The smith went on exasperatedly. The Nord, Gwyn took the time to notice that while he was dressed in Imperial red he wasn't quite a courier. No, he didn't have the right look for an actively serving soldier, he was too broad around the waist, and his sword wasn't tied to his side properly, more likely he was a bit of a patriot and retired from active duty.

"I cannot. It is a matter of honor, I'd sooner bend my knee to Ulfric." The Nord said with a similar tiredness to his voice, he'd been here before then. "Grey-Mane will never make steel for the legion; I've had people approach him over it, it offends his ancestors or some shit like that according to him."

The smith heaved a sigh and turned back towards her forge, "Fine! I'll do what I can, but do _not_ expect miracles."

"Thank you." The Nord said flatly as he walked off.

"Do something for you, ma'am?" The smith waited a moment before she addressed Gwynnifer, wary that her incessant customer might come back.

"I need this sharpened." Gwyn tugged at the sword on her side, glad to be rid of the unfamiliar weight of the thing as the smith took it from her, looking it over.

"You're the sorriest swordsman I've ever seen, lady. My guess is you're some kind of highborn, judging by your attire and the way you carry yourself."

Gwyn nodded softly. "Guilty as charged; Gwynnifer of Daggerfall."

"Adrienne Avenicci, at your service." The smith regarded the Breton with a careful eye, not suspicious so much as her gaze was judging the shorter woman. "You headed up the hill?" Adrienne placed the edge of Gwyn's sword to a stone and began the slow process of redeeming its sharpness.

"So it seems." The noblewoman replied plainly, "Do you have any advice for clothiers in the city?"

"No dedicated clothier that's been active in the last decade, ma'am. Might try the general goods merchant off the round at the top of the road here." Adrienne pointed her head towards Gwyn's back.

"Any news from High Rock?" Gwyn smiled as the smith was helpful enough to help her sheath the sword that she couldn't use.

"Not that I've heard, check with my father, he's the steward up at Dragonsreach. Ten drakes if you please." The smith counted the coins as they fell into her hand before dropping them down into one of the wide pockets of her apron.

"One last thing, do you know the way to the Bannered Mare?" Gwynnifer asked as she adjusted the sheath of her sword.

* * *

Freya looked up from the mug of water that she'd been pretending to nurse for the better part of the day. Her position at the bar of the Bannered Mare was both advantageous and disadvantageous at the same time. Her back was to the door, a place she wasn't comfortable with, but on the other hand it did allow her a commanding view of the common room of the inn from the rather tall stools that were in front of the counter. "You waiting on someone or something?" The publican finally broke her thoughts, a matronly Nord by the name of Hulda, it took Freya a minute to realize that she'd asked the question in Nordic and not Cyrodiilic. Her mother-tongue was rusty, sure there were Nords in Bruma who stuck to it, but most people spoke Cyrodiilic, even in the Summerset Isles where Altmeris was the official and supposedly _enforced_ language, most people spoke the common tongue.

"My lady." The Bard said shortly, sliding another drake across the counter so that Hulda would continue to put up with her occupying one of the most expensive seats in her house without due cause. "I left her in the care of the publican of the Dragon's Nest a few days ago. I was hoping she'd have caught up by now." A frown covered the Bard's normally perpetually cheerful features which Hulda shrugged in response.

"Highborns, they take their time with everything." The fellow Nord said shortly before going back to tending other customers.

"That we do." Gwynnifer spoke up from behind Freya causing the Bard to jump a little. "I lament to inform you, my dear handmaiden, I have not yet expired." The Breton's tone was jovial as she half-jumped up on to an empty stool next to Freya and offered her an incredibly reserved smile before holding out the bag of drakes she'd been lent. "A good deal lighter, I'm afraid and I didn't even manage to find any decent clothing."

Freya pushed it back to the noblewoman nonchalantly with a small smile of her own. "What's mine is yours, at least until we acclimate you to adventuring, you'll be wealthy enough to support the lifestyle you're used to in no time, milady."

"Quite." Gwyn responded before flagging down the only person wandering around the floor who wasn't drinking or eating. "I assume you work here?" The Breton inquired to the Redguard who nodded stiffly. "We should talk."

"What makes you think I want to talk to you?" The young lady snapped before remembering her mannerisms. "My apologies… my lady." The way the words came out were stilted, the words of someone used to saying something else entirely. "Can I… get you anything?"

Gwynnifer frowned, her brow creasing. "Oh, you poor dear. Very well. Whatever the best wine in the house is, the bottle."

"Firebrand or Spiced?"

"Spiced." With that short exchange the Redguard wandered off, disappearing into a back room. "That young lady is a noble." Gwyn said _very_ softly to Freya, who tossed a look over her shoulder before offering her thoughts.

"Yeah, you all never do blend in as much as you stand out, even when you're trying. You thinking about helping her, milady?" Freya remarked casually as she turned back to the bar and actually emptied her cup.

"Couldn't hurt, I've no doubt you've done your best to see the local populace indebted to ourselves, no?" The noblewoman gave Freya a knowing sort of look and the Bard nodded sheepishly in countenance. They were both the agreeable helpful sort of personality, it was to be expected.

The Redguard young lady returned after a moment or two bearing a tray with a half-full bottle of spiced wine and two of the finer silver goblets the establishment had. Under Gwyn's careful eye she poured it to the best of her poor ability, none of it spilled but her hands shook mightily in spite of that. The Breton leaned in and caught the Redguard by the shoulder before she could dash away, though.

"I know one of my own when I see them. _Which house?_ _"_ Gwynnifer was not unkind, her voice remaining consistently low and polite in order to not give the serving girl's status away.

"Maybe we should talk..." The Redguard yielded before extricating herself from the Breton's grasp. "My shift ends in an hour, then we go for a walk. Walls talk." Gwyn gave her a look of understanding, turning to her wine as the noble-in-hiding made her escape.

The hour passed without much in the way of eventfulness, the exception being when Freya inquired of the local bard who'd set up near the fire pit in the middle of the room to shut up and step off for a few, the local thanked her for the break and the few drakes she'd slipped him to wet his throat. Freya could… sing wasn't quite the word for it, Gwyn pondered as the lyrics flowed out of her companion No, she was _enchanting_ catching the crowd and telling a story through the music of her voice. It was _beautiful._ The Cyrodiilic ballad ended with applause from quite literally everyone in the building forming a mild thunderous roar of several dozen drunk, half-drunk and generally merry people calling for encores that Freya politely declined as she stepped back from the fire-pit.

"That's a skill, my dear handmaiden." Gwynnifer stated plainly as Freya returned to their seating which had been relocated from the bar to a small table off to the side of the room. Gwyn raised the silver chalice in her hand to toast the Nord woman who smiled cheerfully as she sat down across from the noble.

"Self-taught, too." Freya said proudly, "I got tired of being hungry, and a well talented troubadour is a rare and precious commodity among the counts of Cyrodiil who pay exorbitantly to be well entertained during feasts, festivals and just plain to stave off boredom."

"I take it the skald culture of Skyrim isn't well pronounced in the Imperial Province." Gwyn remarked calmly as she drank in addition to keeping an eye on the Redguard serving girl.

"Pretty much, yeah. It's not to say Imperials don't have a music culture, it's just tonal and not very lyrical, they tend to prefer, in my experience, organ and instrumental on top of poetry more than singing-storytelling." Freya flagged down a different server and put in an order for mead and soup, gold exchanging hands with ease. "The goods merchant accepted the haralds by the way."

"Merchants in High Rock accept drakes and alessians, old coin that you can find in tombs and tunnels dating back to the Order." Gwyn's response neutralizing any sense of surprise if there was any.

"Looks like your new friend is done, milady." Freya motioned to the Redguard who was approaching quickly causing the Bard to sigh and abandon her freshly arrived meal…

* * *

Author's Notes:

This was long over due, I was busy with a lot of things. I've decided that as everyone tells the MQ whenever they're doing an ES story, I shall take the meandering path, sidequests and character interactions. I apologize to those who expected it to be quick.

There are likely grammatical mistakes here and there, I apologize for them, I do try to be as thorough as possible in weeding them out. Shorter than the last one because I cut it in half. As always, review please.


	8. VII

**A Bard's Tale**

 **VII**

The unlikely trio exited the Bannered Mare making a bee-line for the 'Wind District' where the temples and residential housing were located. Freya kept her hand on her sword as they walked, the well patrolled streets had ample opportunities for would-be assassins to strike regardless of the amount of guardsmen on the hunt for trouble makers while Gwynnifer was _slightly_ more relaxed. The three women came to a stop on the outskirts of a sermon being delivered by a boisterous Nord who's voice rang over the crowds with _power_ as he preached of mighty Talos, Protector-God of the Empire and one of the patron gods of the Imperials and Nords. Their Redguard guide-customer turned to face them both with a heavy look of skepticism on her youthful face. "Alright, since you can see through me; who are you?" The Redguard demanded.

"Gwynnifer of Daggerfall, House Kingsley." Gwyn made little effort to hide who she was, running was better than hiding when you couldn't blend in well. The Redguard visibly, though only slightly, relaxed; her shoulders sagging and her eyes flickering with a tiredness that Gwyn was all too familiar with herself.

"I am Arwa of Taneth." The Redguard kept her voice low with Gwynnifer leaning into her in order to hear. "I go by Saadia." Saadia raised her voice to a conversational as opposed to conspiratorial tone.

"Well, Saadia. I am a problem solver for people like us. I will need to know some things first, of course." Gwyn offered a gaze of understanding with a hint of sympathy, it wasn't easy to up and leave every few months when you were used to being rooted.

"Like?" Saadia kept her voice even and a free hand on a dagger that was tied to her belt.

"Let's start with the basics, Lady of Taneth." Gwyn regarded the look of abject horror on Saadia's face with casual amusement. "Who or what hunts you?" Ghosts weren't above the Breton lords, Gwyn had few reasons to believe that other Men wouldn't use them as well, tricky as those contracts could be.

"Alik'r mercenaries." It was at this point Saadia resumed walking with Gwyn and Freya following her through a sizable garden space dedicated to a single dead white tree. "Sent by houses rival to Taneth's great house." Saadia kept her eyes flickering this way and that, examining faces for unfamiliar ones, a task made more difficult by the sheer volume of foreigners ever present in the trade hub.

"and they say the best court intrigue is from the Iliac Bay." Freya quipped, amusement clear in the Bard's tone.

"Are these particularly good assassins or do they prefer to stand out?" Gwynnifer aimed to keep the conversation on track as they walked passed a wide staircase of hewn stone that led up to the golden hall of Dragonsreach.

"I'd be dead already if they chose to blend in, thankfully they're not that smart." Saadia offered as she dared to laugh a hollow laugh. "They keep to the colors of our mutual homeland; wearing shades of brown and gold akin to the great Alik'r desert. I've heard guards muttering about their scimitars as well. Apparently curved swords are incredibly rare here." That caused a mild laugh from all of them as they rounded a corner to a staircase that led down to the gatehouse when Saadia stopped cold before ducking behind Freya's slightly larger form. Down near the gate two men in the colors of Hammerfell were arguing with several men of the Whiterun guard and loudly at that. Men on the walls had drawn bows and those on level ground with the Redguards had swords in hand. "Freya, take Saadia back to the inn." Gwynnifer spoke softly as the crowd paused around them for the most part to watch the unfolding drama. It didn't need confirmation or saying twice, as Saadia tore away from both of them at a persistent jog back the way they'd come.

With her companions gone, Gwyn decided on a closer look, edging herself down the wide stairs between the throng of peoples with polite smiles and soft touches, a soothe spell lingering over her fingertips as she did so.

"After what happened you're lucky I don't toss you all in jail to rot. You've already been told by the order of the Jarl _you are not allowed here._ Leave. Now." Gwyn recognized the voice of Tyr Fire-Hair, though infected with tension and steel.

"All we ask is to look for her-" One of the Alik'ir started before Tyr interrupted them curtly.

"There are over a thousand Redguards in this city under the protection of Jarl Balgruuf the Greater from beggars in the streets to high standing nobility, you do not have the right to harass his lordship's citizens at will on some contract from a foreign monarch." The guardsman took a step forward before the second of the Alik'r took hold of his companion and threw up an arm of peace which did quite a lot to kill the tension among the gathered men.

"We understand, I offer my apologies, Captain. It has been a long road and a frustrating search. We will go in peace if you permit it."

"Do not come back." Tyr bade his men to lower their weapons, the Nord warriors doing so with discipline as the Redguard warriors left out of the main gate, the crowds started moving almost immediately after they were gone.

"Captain Tyr." Gwynnifer came up to the Nord as the tall redhead was sheathing his sword.

"Lady Kingsley." Tyr regarded her neutrally as his frustration ebbed. "War and dragons, now mercenaries from Hammerfell strutting about..." He sighed, clearly annoyed by it all.

"I don't suppose they're looking for me?" She joked, causing the Captain to chuckle slightly.

"No, my lady. Not unless you're very good at faking being a Breton." They both laughed shallowly at the Captain's words. "I don't suppose there's harm in telling you though. Maybe you can help." Tyr waved Gwyn into a small alcove in the walls where a desk and some basic amenities were set up, Gwyn took a seat across the desk from Tyr who sat down with a heavy sigh.

"They're looking for a lady under the Jarl's personal protection; he knows who she is and where she comes from. We've been expecting these Alik'r for the better part of a year." Tyr poured glasses of water into clay cups and offered one to the noblewoman who took it with a small nod.

"I ran into who you're talking about in the Bannered Mare, I suspect." Gwyn offered, taking a drink to wet her throat. "Arwa of Taneth."

"Yeah, that's her. Asked us to call her Saadia, fine by me and the day watchmen. If you haven't made it up the hill yet, let Jarl Balgruuf know that you're in on this, and hey? I served in the legion for twenty years and fought in the war. I know the look of people like them, casual murder isn't above them and they're good at it. Be careful." The captain had a good control on his emotions and body language, not giving off any hint of fearfulness.

"Thank you, captain." Gwynnifer smiled softly as she stood and the two clasped hands.

The Bannered Mare was a welcome sight for Saadia and Freya, the two calming their steady trot on approach to the market avenue that the Mare sat alongside of. "Determined, aren't they?" The Bard quipped as they entered the establishment via the service entrance that opened to the quarter of the three story building dedicated to the kitchens, larders and quarters for the owner and staff. Most of inn was taken up in rooms, both semi-private common rooms and private bedding chambers. This area, other than having a door to the rest of the building was off limits to the majority of the population without invitation. Saadia led the way passed several other people working in the kitchens up a flight of stairs to a section of the second story. Upon entering her room the Redguard wordlessly went for her bags before Freya put a gentle hand on her shoulder to stop her.

"No, you do not need to worry about that. I give you my solemn word I will not let them take you." The sincerity in the Bard's voice caused Saadia to flinch. Nobility or not, she wasn't used to people looking out for her without having an ulterior motive. There was a knock at the door to the room that caused them to both jump. Freya had both spun around to face the entrance and half-drawn her sword before a voice followed the knocking. "Saadia, dear, there's someone here calling for you, Breton lady."

"Thank you!" Saadia called out in response as Freya sheathed her sword fully before the Redguard opened the door and stepped out. She returned a moment later with Gwynnifer in her wake an odd but comfortable silence between the two until Saadia closed the door to the room.

"What's the plan?" The Redguard noble wasted no time and kept her small knife in hand as she spoke animatedly.

"Well, information is what we need and I'm sad to say I gleaned next to nothing from that incident at the gatehouse. The watch captain informed me that the Jarl knows of your presence," A nod confirmed that as Gwyn continued speaking; "and that _surprisingly_ the Alik'r are proficient killers. You have more experience with them than that, so whatever you can tell me would be most helpful." The Breton noblewoman leaned against the plaster covered wall of the inn as she stared at her Redguard equal in exile.

A quiet spell fell on the three for a few minutes as Saadia levied her options and thought on her adversaries, at some point her knife found its way back into its sheath wordlessly as well. "When they first arrived here to the city, one of them was caught trying to sneak in through the cistern. The last I heard of it he's been rotting in the dungeons of the castle. You could pry what you need out of him?"

"Is he due to be executed?" Freya injected herself into the conversation. "Dead men aren't known for being very talkative." The Bard mused from her sitting position on the rickety chair that was in the room.

"Not that I'm aware of, but… the threat of that could certainly go a long way to getting him to talk, couldn't it?" Saadia suggested, pacing lightly in the tiny space of her doorway.

"Certainly, we'll take our leave; I'll send a runner when we've reached a suitable point of change." …

After leaving the Bannered Mare, Gwyn and Freya found themselves at the foot of a grand stone staircase that led up an intimidating deliberately narrow final approach to the precipice of Whiterun. "They wouldn't let me in, just so you know." Freya mentioned as they started up the stairs, in response Gwynnifer simply shrugged and muttered something about registered adventurers.

The most immediate demarcation was the lack of people headed up to this point, there was no trickle of commoners, no middling adventurers aside from Freya who was quite aware of how out of place she looked in comparison to the members of the lower and middle nobility headed up or down from the summit. The Bard however was undeterred, the courts of Cyrodiilic Counts or the halls of Nordic Jarls were much the same in that regard.

"Halt." A voice called out as the two reached the top of the stairs. "State your business with the Jarl, he is not currently receiving petitioners."

"Lady Gwynnifer Kingsley of Daggerfall and her retinue Freya of Bruma." Gwyn spoke in countenance before Freya could, the Bard's masterful ability to spin stories would no doubt come in handy but for the moment the near-truth was better. "We have come from the city-fortress of Helgen on the border with Cyrodiil and bring news to Balgruuf, Jarl of Whiterun concerning it."

"Very well, check your weapons here, though." The guardsman who spoke to them drew them off to the side where Freya unbelted her sword, shifted the weight of her pack to do likewise with her shield, then the handax on the pack and then a bootknife that all got an appraising look from the guardsman who handed them off to another guard who dumped them into a barrel unceremoniously. Gwynnifer did likewise with her own short sword before the two were waved through.

The golden roofed hall's interior was as grandiose as any Bretonic or Cyrodiilic palace, with fine tapestries and superbly made fur rugs covering the walls and floor respectively to retain heat as well as to be aesthetically pleasing. The tapestries were the banners of the various noble houses in Whiterun, minor as they were there were more Thanes than Jarls the same as there were more barons than kings and more counts than emperors. The most prominent of the tapestries of course was the banner of Whiterun itself a stylized horse's head on a field of gold whose mane was knotted ornately surrounded by a black ring. It was simple in design but expensive in material, showing the Jarl's theoretically immense wealth in comparison to his own retainers and courtiers. Along the walls below the tapestry there were people, men and women who stood mutely dressed in the finest arms and armors their masters could buy from clean fur over leather to interlocking steel plates that would not look out of place on a Breton or Imperial Knight. The Húskarlar of Whiterun, each of them in theory worth at least five of those below them in the hierarchy of combative things. Intended to send a clear message that the Jarl and those closest to him were safe from assassins, enterprising fools and the odd drunken courtier they primarily dealt with the latter due to the interwoven layers of security that one would have to pass by simply to get to this point to begin with.

"Perhaps my dear it is best if you hang back a few steps." Gwynnifer whispered as low as she could manage to her companion who's nod of response was imperceptible. "Herald!" Gwyn said more loudly at a conversational tone, immediately a finely dressed young lad stepped forward. "Lady Gwynnifer Kingsley of Daggerfall, here to pay homage to the Lord of Whiterun." The noblewoman instructed, which the herald bellowed through the fine timbers of the hall, causing a minor echo before it was absorbed by the furnishings.

"Step forward." A powerful voice echoed in return and so Gwyn did so.

Balgruuf the Greater was a monumentally tall man who was broad of shoulder and strong of arm by the look of him. Long blonde, clean and braided hair sheltered a pair of perceptive and intelligent green eyes that swept over Gwynnifer with the familiar power known to kings and lords that even as a member of the nobility always succeeded in making the Breton feel even smaller than she already was physically.

"Welcome to Dragonsreach, Lady of Daggerfall." The Jarl's Cyrodiilic was fluent and graceful, he spoke clearly and with the comfortable power of his station. "What's this I've heard from my guards about you surviving Helgen, and nosing about in the affairs of my citizenry?" The Jarl was not unkindly in his tone, holding an intense _curiosity_ instead of hostility.

"I apologize for not immediately ascending to your keep and announcing myself, milord." Gwyn bowed with the fluid social grace of someone enormously used to the relationships of the powerful. "I did indeed survive Helgen, as did my companion-" Gwyn motioned to Freya who saluted the Jarl with a bow at a distance which placated a pretty Dunmer lady who stood off to the side of Balgruuf with steel in her eyes. "I would ask your lordship to tell us what you've been informed of already so that we do not tell you of things you already know." After she spoke, the Jarl waved a hand beckoning the two of them closer, they naturally obliged.

"You're sure that Helgen was hit by a dragon? It wasn't some Stormcloak raiding party or some other easily explainable cause for the stream of refugees over the last few days?" The Jarl appraised the two of them with a neutral gaze, carefully checking both of them for signs of falsehood.

"I regret, milord that it was a dragon. The Legion was about to execute Ulfric Stormcloak himself when the dragon landed upon the town. In the aftermath of it all I remain stunned and surprised that as many people as did survived." Gwyn had no reason to lie to him, though she carefully omitted her own truth of presence there.

"I see..." Balgruuf began before flicking his eyes towards Freya. "You confirm all of this, kinsman, as your mistress says, this really was a dragon?" Perhaps the Nordic king thought the familial bond would override a self-imagined fierce loyalty where the reality was that Gwynnifer was loyally clinging to the Bard.

"Yes, my lord, it really was a dragon." Freya did not parse words for a change, speaking bluntly, though remaining polite.

"Well, damn." The Jarl sighed and his shoulder sagged. "Provinici, do you still believe we should trust in the strength of our walls?" His neutral tone was still there as he regarded an Imperial who'd been standing off to the left in trepid silence as he chewed on the information as well.

"My lord, we should send men to Riverwood at once; if that dragon is lurking in the mountains, they're in the most immediate danger." The Dunmer lady interjected before the Imperial went to speak.

"We can't do that, the Jarl of Falkwreath will assume that we're preparing to join with the Stormcloaks and attack hi-"

"Enough." Balgruuf's neutrality swiftly died at the mention of being overly cautious. "We will not stand idly while dragons burn my hold and slaughter my people. Irileth, send a detachment of men to Riverwood at once, as I recall it does not have much in the way of barracks, ten to twenty at the most."

"At once." The Dunmer lady stepped back into the shadows before she skirted the room with a masterful skill at avoiding politicians.

"And you!" Balgruuf stood up revealing his true height, easily cresting six feet the Nordic king slapped a kindly hand onto Gwyn's shoulder and the tiny Breton felt her knees buckle slightly. "And you!" He did the same to Freya with a jovial enough smile on his face considering the circumstances he'd been presented with. "You have done me and Whiterun a service, and that I shall not forget. You are hereby invited to feast with us tonight here; in addition I am presenting you both with gifts from my personal armories. However," The Jarl bade them to follow, suddenly the room felt much bigger than it already was. "There is something I need done; let us go and see my court-wizard. He's been looking into dragons and the rumors of dragons since this fiasco began, and I believe you can be of great help to him."

It took a great deal of effort for Gwynnifer to stop herself from groaning, ever the helpful spirit… Damnedable spirit of nobles who actually did things.

"Farengar!" The Jarl's booming voice preceded the small group as they left the great hall and after a short walk down a small corridor entered into a wide office where all manner of mystical bauble was on display or undergoing experiments by a tall Nord man in the blue robes typical of a court mage across the continent.

"Yes, my lord?" Farengar had a tired sound to his voice, as though he were annoyed at being interrupted, Balgruuf however tactfully ignored his subordinate's insubordination.

"I've found someone to help you with your dragon research, go head and fill them in with the details." The Jarl turned to leave before he regarded the two of them a final time. "Do this for me, and you will be justly rewarded." He said more to Freya than he did to Gwynnifer as the noblewoman was wrapped in conversation with Farengar.

"Oh, you mean this?" Freya shifted her backpack before pulling out the triangular stone they'd found in Bleakfalls...


	9. VIII

VIII

While it seemed obvious in hindsight, night was colder than the day now that Freya took the time to notice it. The bed beneath her was a combination of hay and fur as opposed to the pads of layered cotton common in Cyrodiil, it wasn't uncomfortable, merely different. Across the room Gwynnifer was buried under as many blankets as the tiny Breton could find and still shivered fiercely every so often. Whether from the close to freezing temperatures or unseen nightmares it was impossible to tell. The Bard turned her attention to remembering the last few days and smiled to herself, she never fancied herself an adventurer beyond the concept of traveler, the divines certainly had their humor...

The Bard wasn't sure how much time had passed when she next opened her eyes. Sunlight filtered through the thinner portions of the thatching in the roof, giving the room a warm glow to it. The temperature had also risen a bit since the reappearance of the Sun. The first thing she noticed though was the absence of Gwyn, though she didn't panic. While muted by a closed heavy door, the sounds of the inn in the early morning were in full swing judging from the various little sounds of people moving about as Freya rose from the bed and prepared for the day before she headed down to the common room. The fire pit in the center of the floor was surrounded by the earliest risers while the tables that were scattered about the floor were predictably mostly full by the steady trickle of people downward from the rooms. Freya spent a few seconds scanning the room from a top the bottom stair that led to the second level, looking among the sea of faces for her companion. The search was fruitless and she was soon shooed from the stairwell by fellow patrons, soon after the Nord found herself at the bar again. The stools were surprisingly empty considering the stereotype of Nordic alcoholism.

"Water, bread, cheese, and whatever oat stew I could smell cooking." Freya dropped a heavy sack of coins on the counter before Hulda could even get a word in edgewise, the publican nodded and scooped the bag away before flagging down one of her assistants and relaying the order. Several minutes of small talk later Freya ate quickly before returning to her lodgings to retrieve her belongings. Finding everything in good order as well as the few paltry things that Gwyn had acquired to be missing, presumably on her person; the Bard made short work of leaving the Mare with a smile on her face and a corked bottle of Argonian ale in hand as she stepped out into the morning sun.

The streets of Whiterun were already bustling with life, the crowds only slightly smaller than they would be by afternoon when Freya dropped the bottle of ale in the hands of a beggar along with a sack of coins and a quick remark "So you can buy it yourself next time." The Bard meandered a little after that, stopping in the wind district to offer prayer to Kynareth before finding herself in the unsettling quiet of Whiterun's Hall of the Dead to do much the same.

It wasn't a building but instead a series of caverns carved out of the hillside that the city sat upon. Banners to the God of Life and Death marked the entrance hall and a large shrine to the Once Mortal God consumed a side of the first of the chambers. An older man with a gray beard paced incessantly, muttering to himself before he looked up toward Freya.

"Tell me, child of the nine, do you know Arkay, mighty God of Life and Death?" The priest had a good voice that carried well and echoed off of the walls of the tomb, though he did not yell.

Freya blinked a couple times and shrugged noncommittally. "Well enough, though I don't give him much thought."

"I see… If I can take a moment of your time, I very much need your help, child." The priest began, Freya sighed internally and nodded. "I was tending to our catacombs and I'm afraid I lost something most precious in them. My amulet of Arkay is a sacred badge of office, and more importantly it is the source of my divinely bequeathed power. Without it, I cannot carry out my duties as caretaker and I have heard the dead becoming… restless as a result. I beseech you, please get my amulet back." …

Putting down skeletons wasn't a task that Freya was particularly fond of. Skeletons had a strength behind their bones telling of something thoroughly unnatural, even for the undead and their immunity to such things as pain and fear. As the last one fell the Bard kicked its skull across the floor to make sure it didn't get back up like some of the others had before she called through the door to the outer hall for the priest, Andurs, to come in. The moment the priest stepped into the catacombs and set his hand upon the necklace of heavy beads and bronze the silence of the tomb decreased by ten fold. The bones of the skeletons which occasionally twitched as they gathered unnatural energies to stand once more ceased motion entirely and all in all it felt… peaceful instead of a place filled with dread like it had been when she'd entered. "Wow, you really weren't kidding." Freya remarked as the two made a short exit back into the main hall with the priest chuckling to himself.

"No, not at all. Thank you for your help, some coins for your trouble?" Andurs held out a small bag of coins that Freya pushed back towards him.

"Doesn't feel right charging a priest for something that simple, have a good day, yeah?" She flashed him one of her signature smiles and made for the door, stepping back into the sun quite glad to be in the outside world again. Idly, the Nordic woman was coming to the realization that while not claustrophobic, she couldn't stand tombs, too many moving bodies…

* * *

Gwynnifer sat across a table from a youngish Redguard man who could scarcely be called a man wrapped in tan colored robes missing his boots and cuffs giving him the appearance of a blanket with a head. "So," The noblewoman regarded him with an utter lack of outward hostility, while she had an understandable dislike for assassins like him, he'd done nothing to personally harm her. "I'd like information from you, provided that you tell me what I want to know, you walk out of here a freeman instead of meeting with the Jarl's headsman." Gwyn cut straight to the point, she had no reason to haggle with this man when there were other Alik'r in Rorikstead she could bother after a day's ride there. "I was even kind enough to pay your bounties off. So, who's your boss and why are you hunting Arwa?"

The Redguard to his credit had a look like stone on his face for several long minutes of staring across the table before he finally stated a single word. "Kematu."

"Pardon?"

"Our leader's name is Kematu, we are quartering out of a smuggler's den in the plains between Whiterun's western guard tower and the hamlet of Rorikstead." The Alik'r spoke quickly before he took a ratty piece of parchment from Gwyn's side of the table and drew a map with a quill. "My 'brothers' left me to die, I have no strong feelings of loyalty to them."

"How chivalrous." Gwyn clucked dryly as she stood, pocketing the crude map as she did so. "You can discuss the terms of your release with the gentleman by the door. Thank you for your custom." The noblewoman left quickly, prisons made her uneasy, even when she wasn't the one in one of the cages.

The early morning sunlight provided much needed warmth that wasn't apparently very common at night and she doubted that it would be much better in the daylight as autumn gave way to true winter, either. High Rock got cold, very cold in fact, the western drudach mountains were every bit as chilly as Skyrim, unlike Skyrim, High Rock was not solely bordered by arctic sea and wind, with the city-state of Daggerfall sitting on the pleasant seaside of the Abecaean Sea and Etheric Ocean. Plainly, Gwynnifer was not at all used to the bitter coldness of the north.

The tiny Breton wandered toward the grand staircase barely managing to sidestep before she was bowled over. "Hey, watch it!"

"Sorry!" A voice called out as an afterthought but the owner was already gone with the clanking of heavy armor forming their wake.

"Messengers." The noble sniffed making her way down the stairs stopping off for a moment at the bottom to listen to the religious rantings of Heimskr before moving on quickly. She had no desire to debate religion with a clear zealot who couldn't get his facts straight. Cyrodiil was a land of coiling vines and trees so tall with leaves so broad they blackened the sun, of dry grasslands that bleed into desert on one side and subtropical forest on the other, where a central plane was surrounded by nearly endless jungle… Some people and their religion, and the poor untraveled fools who didn't know any better. It was possible she would've enjoyed the rest of her morning, that was before a man in the colors of the Jarl ran passed, ragged and heaving for breath that was hard coming, followed closely on the heels by the Jarl's huskarl. "You, with us!" The Dunmer called in her wake leaving Gwynnifer to sigh before following as bade.

Running up the grand staircase of Dragonsreach was a terrible experience that left the Breton noble out of breath much like the taller Nord guardsman was but Irileth kept them both going onward in spite of their obvious tiredness, the Nord even more so and he was at least physically fit. The adhoc group were led into the palace and up a flight of stairs off to the right of the throne room where the Jarl was in intense debate with his steward over funding that very suddenly came to a screeching halt when Irileth entered the room ahead of them. "A dragon has been sighted near the western watchtower."

Gwyn nearly fainted before a strong hand landed on her shoulders causing her knees to buckle. "My friend, I need you to go with Irileth and confront this dragon. You and your servant have more experience with dragons than anyone here just by merit of being here. Do this for me and I assure you that you will be rewarded."

It was such a crisp day, too. "Yes, milord." Gwyn acquiesced with a small bow, he was a lord of men still.

"One more thing, Irileth. There will be a time for glory; this isn't it. We need information and we need to know what we're dealing with. Try not to die." Balgruuf levied an even stare at his huskarl that had something in the gaze that was more than a lord's concern for a servant, good to know she wasn't the only noble who attached herself to their so called 'lessers'.

"I am ever the soul of caution, my lord." The Dunmer gave a wry smile.

"Shall I go with them? The chance to examine a living dragon up close would be invaluable to the study of magic." Farengar, who Gwyn hadn't even noticed before then, cardio, Gwyn, cardio…

"No." The Jarl ordered flatly. "I can't afford to risk both of you."

"Understood, my Jarl." The wizard was rather sullen in answering however he made no move to follow as Irileth bade Gwynnifer to follow.

The trip down the stairs was slightly less terrible than the flight up and weaving through throngs of people increasingly tired wasn't an enjoyable experience. Gwyn metaphorically died of joy when Irileth stopped next to the main gatehouse to address a gathering of guardsmen. The elf knew how to give a speech as evidenced by the mild roar to rise out of the men before they started marching in decent formation with Gwyn in their wake. She had no express desire to fight a bloody dragon, she considered it lucky enough to have survived the first time!

Beyond the exit to the city, near the stables they picked up Freya who was holding a rather interesting looking scimitar and looked harried enough before the Bard was told where they were going resulting in her appearing paler than a ghost afterwards…

Freya fished a duo of small crystal bottles out of her pack as their collection of soldiers came up on a large piece of detached masonry that she assumed used to be part of the tower and handed one to Gwyn. The Bard swallowed the viscous green liquid within in a single shot and praised the gods and whatever clever mage invented the humble potion as it returned a sense of life and energy to her limbs.

"Spread out." Irileth sounded off from the front of the column. "Keep your eyes up and stay alert. There's no dragon here now but..." The elf's words fell off as the small force separated, scanning the sky for unfurled winged death.

"Tell me we have a plan." Freya drew her sword eyes tilted skyward.

"No, my dear handmaiden, I do not. Prior to a week ago dragons were something you told stories about. I haven't the faintest idea on how to kill one." Gwyn was a tad snippy in her response as the Breton weaved fistfuls of magic through her hands, one holding a flickering fireball, the other the beginnings of a magically induced lightning bolt. Then, as before, all hell broke loose.

"Dragon!" One of the men shouted as the sun was blackened for a split second. It was _magnificent_ there was no other word in the languages of men or elves to do justice to the titanic creature that arched over their heads with the grace of an eagle. Enormous and not quite as black as night as the other one had been. "Wonderful, there's more than one." Freya's voice held level in spite of the fear coursing through the Bard.

The dragon's roar was deafening, a sound that was both ethereal and visceral simultaneously that carried with it a promise of bloodshed and pain for those below it. "Fire at will!" Irileth bellowed her order over the sound and drew back her own bow, a long bow in the Dunmeri style that was nearly as tall as Gwynnifer was. The arrow flew straight and true into the dragon's underbelly, causing a roar that sounded like a… _chuckle_ almost, as though it were toying with them. It was then that Gwyn realized she could _understand_ it.

" _I have missed hunting you."_ The Breton swore she could _feel_ the malevolence in the dragon's voice. _"You are brave."_ Or suicidal…

" _Your defeat brings me honor."_ Each time the dragon spoke it was preceded immediately by streams of fire that burned white-hot when the flame reached the ground. Grass, man or stone, it all burned frighteningly quickly. _"Such sport! I had forgotten how persistent you mortals are!"_

"Shut up!" Gwyn shouted at the sky, which peaked the dragon's interest causing it to land. It roosted on the tower which buckled under its weight.

" _You are curious."_ The dragon regarded the tiny Breton with an inquisitive look, the sudden change in its demeanor stunning the others into a palpable, ready silence with arrows at the ready. _"You understand us?"_ A flash of anger and something else; sheer unadulterated _terror_ flickered across the dragon's red-green eyes before it spoke again. " _Dragon-Born._ _We are_ _Mirmulnir._ _Your defeat will bring us much honor._ _"_ It was then that Gwyn lanced a lightning bolt through the dragon's chest.

The magically charged electricity coursed through the creature's body for nearly a minute before it dissipated, absorbed or simply survived before the dragon tilted its head and chuckled in ample amusement. " _Die, Dragon-Born."_ The dragon screeched, fire leaping from its jaws as a volley of arrows one after another found purchase on its immense hide, tearing at its wings and landing in meatier parts of its torso and legs that caused the dragon to recoil violently, too violently, as the tower collapsed the rest of the way as it fell off the top of it with a heaving crash.

The men were upon it before the dragon could rise, swords, axes and hammers biting into its flesh, bows discarded for now as the majestic beast cried out in agony, fire erupting from it as it did so…

Freya dropped her shield when the fight began, a wooden construct wouldn't have been much help against fire. The 'conversation' that folded out between Gwynnifer and the dragon was unsettling. The dragon spoke but it did not speak in the common tongue. A deep booming voice that spoke with __power__ behind every word permeated from the beast. The Bard was legitimately surprised when it either through inability or inaction simply decided to lay thereafter it fell. Surprised or not, however, Freya clambered up on to the dragon's chest, this was something out of the stories, and the glory of killing it wasn't going to some guardsman! The Bard readied her sword in both hands, shrinking away only as a stream of fire erupted from the dragon before she drove the simple broadsword with everything she had between two of its scales that had been loosened by arrow fire. The blade sank into the dragon deeply, its cries abruptly going quiet after her sword stopped at the hilt.

There was no shower of blood, no great cry of defeat.

The men shouted victory for but a moment as something all together different happened. The dragon started to disintegrate. Not like undead, which turned to ash from the magic coursing through them, but something else. The light of a thousand suns shown through the scales of it as a pulse of energy forced the men back and threw Freya skyward, the Bard yelling out in shock before she was caught by two of the guardsmen.

The scales of the dragon went first, flaking apart in the same manner which cotton burned. Meat, sinew and other muscle followed, withering away into nothingness. This process was rather fast, taking less than a minute to burn away all that there was of the dragon until nothing remained except for charred, ancient bones and an impossibly bright light that shot forward faster than anyone could react and lanced through Gwynnifer before it looped back around for another pass. Gwyn barely felt the scream leave her before _power_ started coursing through her, power unlike anything she had ever experienced. Fire, pain, suffering and tragedy on scales that she couldn't even imagine, as well as joy, gladness and pride in equal measure greater than her ability to comprehend. Above all, it _hurt._ It ate at her, melding into her person, her very soul as memories older than the Cyrodiilic Empire flashed through her mind all of it accompanied by a symphony of sound, loud, booming voices coming together to form a song the sort of which gods sang that reached a towering crescendo. Then, all was quiet and cripplingly _alone_ … A thousand, thousand generations flashed in front of her and then she was back, in the frozen tundra of Skyrim, trying so very hard not to weep and failing at that spectacularly. "I… I killed it."

"I..." One of the guards shook the Breton on the shoulder, Freya coming over to do much of the same. "You're dragonborn!" There was a joyous _worship_ to the man's tone that unsettled her severely.

"What?" Gwyn whispered between free-flowing tears, it wasn't proper, she was a lady of high station, you didn't just weep in front of the commoners and yet, she did.

"Dragonborn." The man repeated more gently than before, his voice evening out. "I can't believe it… I never thought I'd see such a thing in all my days."

"Alright, alright, back up." Freya held Gwyn steady for a second before the Breton collapsed in on her sobbing in spite of the small crowd, twelve of twenty, not bad for casualties. The noblewoman kept repeating over and over that she'd killed it before Freya shook her hard. "Milady, calm yourself."

"I have an idea," One of the guards spoke up. "Try to shout, in the way that dragons do, according to the old stories only the dragonborn can shout without training." If looks could kill, Freya would've dropped him twice over.

"All of you need to shut up." Irileth picked her way through what was left of her men and held a hand to Gwyn's head, a soft white light emitting from the Dunmer's palm. "Be well, sera. It's dead, we killed it, your friend gave it the mortal blow. I don't know what happened to you, but you don't seem to be unwell."

"You don't understand." Gwyn muttered as the group began walking back, a man running ahead to bring back men with stretchers for their fallen while Freya carried the tiny Breton. "Dragons, in the stories from High Rock… Dragons are immortal, everlasting, they _can't_ be killed… I, I _I destroyed it."_ …

* * *

Notes: I have it in mind that absorbing a dragon's soul should be an incredibly painful process, you're not just eating something, you're gaining everything about the something you ate, and the you-part of you would recoil against that sort of thing and fight back. So I think any way. It's the Royal We, by the way, Dragons fancy themselves the rulers of Nirn, it should reflect in their speech.


End file.
